A Discernable Difference
by owlofathena
Summary: Hermione's seventh year at Hogwarts is rapidly becoming a nightmare come to life. Eventual MM HG. COMPLETE!
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: Oddly enough, I am not J.K. Rowling. These characters belong to that person. _

_Author's Note: _

_Given that my last story, _Time to Heal_, was so well received (heck, I even got a marriage proposal!), I'm beginning yet another, if marginally shorter, one. _

_Took me a while to piece it together the seams. This fic takes place in seventh year, Hermione will be eighteen, and is non-canon, as it takes place at the school with a still-living Dumbledore. ._

_I realize that I've been rather hard on Ron in my previous fics, and this one will be no exception. In reality, I like him far better than Harry in the books. So. I _am _sympathetic to his romantic plight (he can be clueless at times, though) and in his defense, Hermione isn't the easiest person to get along with. _

_Especially when she's caught in a terribly confusing romantic quandary of her own…_

* * *

'Harry, I've done it! _I've_ _done it!_'

A war-like whoop of jubilation, just under 95 decibels, directly into his left ear made Harry Potter jump out of his seat in surprise, nearly falling off of his side of the double desk. Before the interruption, the green-eyed boy had been trying to corral his unnaturally energetic field-mouse into a position on the table top where he could transfigure it to the assigned shape non-verbally. The animal remained reluctant to stop its frantic skittering to and fro and, abandoning the futile chase, he sat back upright on his chair and smiled weakly at his best friend.

'Good job, mate.'

'Only six tries, too.' Ron Weasley was gazing down happily at the creature on his desk, blatantly proud of his achievement. Of all the students in the class, only one other person had managed the transfiguration so far. 'Matches the instructions exactly.'

'No, it doesn't.'

This snippish observation had come from the brunette sitting directly opposite them, her face obscured by a book on theoretical Transfiguration.

Ron stared at her in disbelief.

'How is this _not _a perfect Outstanding, Hermione?' he said, gesturing emphatically at his newly-transfigured rodent. 'Are you blind? Or are you just_ upset _that I'm actually at your level on this lesson?'

This last sentence was said with an air of newly minted self-assurance, and the red-haired boy smirked at Harry as if expecting his friend to side with him.

Harry didn't meet Ron's eyes. He _knew_ that getting involved in this argument was a bad idea.

The girl glanced over the top of her leather-bound tome and fixed Ron with a look of annoyance.

'_Tortoises_, which were the animals that we were _supposed_ to be changing our mice into, Ron, are land-dwelling reptiles. _Turtles_, like the one you have right there,' and here Hermione nodded her head towards the creature on the red-haired boy's desk, 'are strictly aquatic.'

Professor McGonagall, attracted by the unnecessary amount of chatter emanating from the group during a non-verbal spell assignment, chose this particular moment to walk past their table.

'That's a Red-eared Terrapin, Mr. Weasley,' she said, frowning down at Ron's newly-transfigured mouse, one dark eyebrow arched upwards. 'Wrong Testudine. Try again.'

Ron swore viciously once their teacher was out of ear-shot and glared at the Marginated Tortoise that was happily munching on a piece of lettuce on Hermione's desk as if it was to blame for his mistake in genus. Both the land-living reptile and the girl ignored him, the latter turning to the next page of her reading with an air of supreme indifference.

* * *

'Hermione! Wait up.'

The girl closed her eyes in frustration but paused briefly to let Harry catch up to her, hitching her book bag to a more balanced position on her shoulder. The hall was beginning to fill up with students going to their next class, chattering loudly as they went.

'You're not even trying to be nice to him!' the boy said as soon as he caught up to his friend.

On reflection, Harry would realize that it had been the wrong thing to begin a conversation with.

'_Nice?_' Hermione spun around to face him, fists clenched, eyes blazing. 'When he's waltzing around with his new girlfriend, making disparaging remarks about me in the Common Room and generally acting like a pompous, stuck-up ass, you expect me to be _**NICE TO HIM?**'_

Hermione's voice had grown to a near-shriek at the end and Harry stepped back several paces. The other students in the hall turned around to look at the source of the noise.

'You could just…' he tried in vain, stepping back a pace with hands upraised in what he hoped was a placating gesture.

Hermione did an abrupt about-face on her heel, her bag of books swinging wildly from side to side, and resumed her purposeful march down the corridor, scattering first years right and left.

Harry didn't try to follow her.

* * *

With a half-stifled Gaelic curse, Minerva snatched her hand back from the cage, eyes streaming. Her index finger burned, crimson blood running down to her wrist in rivulets and soaking into the pale fabric of her sleeve. Clutching at the deep cut with her left hand to staunch the flow, she closed her eyes and bit her lip down hard, willing the involuntary tears trickling down her face to stop.

The snapping turtle inside the cage glared at her with beady eyes, long neck stretched out and moving side to side in snake-like fashion, as if daring her to try picking him up again. _Draco Malfoy's creation_. The Slytherin teenager had made no attempt at following the lesson's guidelines, which had clearly specified the transformation of the base subject into a fully-functioning tortoise.

Not a turtle.

Silently cursing the shelled-reptile in every language she knew, the dark haired witch drew her wand from her robe pocket and – bloodied-fingers slipping slightly on the slick surface – restored the turtle to its proper form with a flick of her wrist.

It squeaked.

Minerva eyed the mouse darkly. It was more than tempting to switch to her animagi form and scare the living daylights out of the rodent in revenge for the damage that it had inflicted upon her poor fingers. However, the sensation of throbbing in her hand reminded her that she had more pressing matters to attend to. Gritting her teeth at the injustice of it all, the tall woman strode over to her desk and picked up a strip of cloth from a drawer, wrapping it twice around her fingers and the space between her thumb before balling her hand into a tightly clenched fist. A quick look at the injury had showed her that the wound needed attending to by Madame Pomfrey.

With a final glare at the cowering field mouse in the cage, Minerva picked up her bag of assignments for marking and made for the classroom door, pausing briefly at the threshold.

'I'll deal with _you_ later,' she muttered to the empty room.

* * *

'Do I really want to know, Minerva?'

'An altercation with a newly-transfigured _Chelydra serpentina_, Poppy. The American reptile objected to my manhandling him en-route to his cage and expressed his displeasure in a painful manner. Do be a dear and repair the damage for me.'

Poppy Pomfrey carefully un-wound the improvised bandage from the Transfiguration Professor's hand, frowning when the injury was revealed.

'He hit an artery,' Minerva observed lightly, glancing down at the still-bleeding wound.

The nurse ignored her patient's assessment – correct as it was – and tapped her wand against the tip and base of the Scottish witch's index finger. Almost instantly, the gash closed and smoothed into painless unbroken skin.

'Thank-you, Poppy.'

Minerva flexed her long fingers tentatively, testing their capabilities. Finding nothing amiss, she gave the matron another quick smile of thanks and moved to leave the Wing.

'You will _try_ to be more careful, Minerva?' Poppy called after the retreating witch. 'Like using your wand to move the vicious and venomous ones rather than carrying them with your _unprotected extremities_?'

Her words fell on deaf ears.

* * *

The note fell on Hermione's desk exactly fourteen minutes into the Charms lesson the next day.

Checking first to make sure that their diminutive teacher was busy with another student, she unfolded it surreptitiously. Her eyes narrowed when she saw the contents.

A crude representation of what was obviously herself, surrounded by a pile of books and study sheets, had been roughly sketched in on the parchment. The drawing changed after a few seconds to show a smiling, red-haired boy waving his results card which had a row of Outstandings down the center. Mere moments passed before the scene changed yet again to a sketch of herself, also holding a report.

Her results were all Trolls.

'Oh, why won't you just _grow the hell up, Ron!'_

These last words had risen to an angry shout. Hermione crumpled up the note into a ball and hurled it in Ron's general direction, missing her desired target by a mile. She was fed up to the teeth with him and his vindictive attitude over the past month and this was the final straw. 'Can't you _bloody _well leave me _alone_?'

All eyes in the room were now on the two teenagers, the students whispering excitedly amongst themselves as the battle that had been expected for weeks now unfolded between their two peers. Professor Flitwick cleared his throat in a nervous way, attempting to head off what was rapidly becoming a scene.

Ron sat back in his chair with a swagger, covering up his unease in the best way he knew how: smug indifference and a winning grin.

'Don't get your knickers in a twist, Hermione,' he said jovially.

The classroom became dead silent.

It was then that Hermione did something rather rash.

* * *

The aftermath of the events from the morning class was predictable.

'For Heaven's sakes, exactly _what_ has gotten into you, Miss Granger? _You are the Head Girl of this school! _Losing your temper and swearing _a blue streak_ in front of your class is not a part of that position! And transfiguring Ronald Weasley into a _squirrel_? You know the Ministry regulations forbid that!

The young woman didn't answer. Instead, she looked off towards the office bookshelves to the left of the desk, deliberately avoiding meeting her Head of House's eyes.

'And why, in _God's name_, did you transfigure his desk into a giant spider?'

It was remarkable the range of tone and inflection that the Deputy Headmistress was able to inject into each sentence.

'_Hermione.'_

The Scottish witch's voice was low.

'_Look _at me, Hermione.'

Her half-pleading tone worked: dark hazel eyes looked up to meet her own.

'Tell me what's troubling you.'

No response.

'Communication has never been a problem between us, Hermione. Why has it become next to _impossible_ now?'

'May I go, Professor?'

The tall woman stared at her student intently for a few moments before speaking.

'You may. You will be serving your detentions with Madame Pince in the Library for the next month, every Tuesday after dinner for three hours. Gryffindor also will lose 20 points for your disgraceful exhibition.'

With a vague nod of acknowledgement, Hermione turned around, picking up her book bag from the chair beside her, and left her Head of House's office without a backwards glance.

Leaving an utterly perplexed middle-aged-witch in her wake.


	2. Chapter 2

_Author's Note:_

_Three months later…_

_Sorry, sorry, sorry. _

_You're a patient group and I love you all. For the second time this year, I've had to move to another house (same town), along with all of my furniture/kitchen appliances/etc. It meant major computer downtime, and my writing suffered, not to mention my review writing, so I do apologize as I know that I've missed a whole bunch of Minerva/Hermione stories, I've only been glancing from time to time when work and home stuff allows._

_I've decided to merge another story that I was writing into this one to provide a second half. This will extend my original length somewhat, so those of you who like longer stories will be happy. _

_Now I just need to fill out the middle._

* * *

'Severus?'

The Potions Master turned away from his meager breakfast of toast to face Minerva, his black eyes narrowed in what could only be interpreted as thinly-veiled irritation. The man was always grumpy in the morning before he'd finished his second cup of coffee and, as the head of a rival House, she was hardly on his list of favourite people on a _good_ day. Fighting down the feeling of less-than-professional glee that had settled in her chest – after all, there was no logical reason that she should ever be happy with student misbehaviour – Minerva gestured vaguely to her right with her spoon towards the scene that had caught her eye a minute earlier.

'Is that Mr. Lewis attacking that poor Hufflepuff second year with his enchanted porridge?'

Wordlessly, the dark-robed professor stood up and rounded the end of the High Table to descend upon the Slytherin section, hell-bent on discipline. Although Severus had many flaws, Minerva mused, a lack of control of his charges was not one of them. The former Death-Eater was able to reduce a class of seventh-years into a quivering group of nervous wrecks with one potions assignment.

And she had well-founded suspicions that he _enjoyed_ it.

Turning away reluctantly from the unfolding and doubtlessly entertaining spectacle at the Slytherin house benches, Minerva looked over to the closer Gryffindor table. She quickly found what she was looking for.

_So she is still eating at least._

That ruled out_ that_ theory. But she had doubted that Hermione would be silly enough to attempt what many girls her age did out of peer pressure.

* * *

Eating in the Great Hall had become a thrice-daily torture session for Hermione.

She had been ostracized by virtually all of her peers since her colourful outburst the previous week and the students avoided her eyes just as much at the dinner table as they did in classes or in the Common Room. Her Head Girl duties were now done in virtual silence, attending meetings and talking to the younger prefects about curfew duties, the lower-years being mostly oblivious to the upper-year politics.

Ron blatantly ignored her, his full attention directed towards Pavarti Patil, his girlfriend of the past month and a half. He had not spoken with her since his spectacular unplanned transformation into a red squirrel, and had been sitting as far away as possible during classes. Harry tried relentlessly to get her to make peace with Ron, but was generally occupied with catching up with the copious amounts of school-work that he had missed due to a combination of both the numerous Quidditch practices that he was scheduling and his extra-curricular trips outside of the school with Dumbledore in search of Dark activities.

To top it all off, Professor McGonagall kept a close and constant eye on her through every meal from her lofty position the Teacher's High Table. Even now, Hermione could feel her teacher's dark gaze on her back.

'Hermione?'

Neville poked her arm, making Hermione jerk around to face him, her fork raised to strike down whatever wretched creature had disturbed her brooding thoughts. The young man looked a more than a little cowed when he saw the dark expression on her face, shrinking back before finally remembering why he'd wanted her attention in the first place.

'Can you help me with Charms after supper? I still can't get that wind spell down from last Friday and Flitwick said that we had to have it by tomorrow's class in order to continue on.'

'I'm in the Library for detention tonight,' Hermione said, lowering her fork to her plate to spear the remainder of her un-eaten egg. 'I won't be back until after nine.'

Ginny Weasley shot her a sympathetic look from the other side of the table.

'My brother deserved what you did, I don't see why McGonagall punished you for it. You were clearly provoked."

At this, the red-haired girl glared at her brother, who was sitting at the far end of the table with Pavarti. The dark-haired twin was laughing hysterically at some joke Ron had made.

'Git. His head's puffed up more than a Snargaluff pod.'

* * *

Minerva had decided that upon her retirement – should she survive that long – she would move to a remote area of the known world where there was absolutely no chance of seeing a human being under the age of 20.

Had Miss Vane ever _read_ a book on sexual education? Mr. McClaggen certainly hadn't, Minerva had well-founded doubts that the young man could even _read_, given his prevalent aptitude for failing exams.

And in a _broom closet_ of all places!

The headache regarding the detailed letter that she'd have to send to Romilda Vane's parents and the inevitable meetings that would follow had already begun to throb inside her skull. Cormac McClaggen had far too many relatives in high places at the Ministry to allow Dumbledore to expel him, although the boy had already failed his entire set of N.E.W.T's once and would likely reproduce these results during the next testing.

_And they were both Gryffindors!_

Gritting her teeth, Minerva yanked open the door to her office and strode in, ready to confront the mess of paperwork awaiting her. Courage and bravery were to be admired, yes, but couldn't Godric Gryffindor have specified some small degree of _common sense_ in his initiates as well?

* * *

Hermione had never really been able to understand Madame Pince.

Granted, the Head Girl enjoyed reading more than almost anything else in the world, but the lengths to which the aged librarian took her literary devotion at times bordered on the extremes of clinical psychoticism.

'Infidels! Fiends! Jackanapes!'

Madame Pince clutched the ink-splattered book protectively against her chest, holding it as a mother would a newborn child. The battered tome had been shoved into her hands by a terrified fourth year boy who had immediately fled out of the doors of the Library again at top speed.

Still snarling abuse under her breath, the decrepit witch took out her wand made of age-yellowed ivory and siphoned off the ink with a charm, cleaning off every spot of the black liquid from the now pristine red leather cover. Satisfied with its condition after a close inspection of the books pages, the librarian marched off towards the nearby stacks to replace the now-restored tome to its proper place. Students melted like water from the area around her, quickly moving their belongings to the other side of the desks and avoiding the gaze of the fuming woman by shielding their faces with raised textbooks.

The excitement now largely over, Hermione returned to her own arduous task; that of restoring the returned books that had been tampered with by enterprising students, a formidable stack of which were perched precariously on the table beside her. Fortunately, the damage was mostly limited to the alteration of passages of dry text to form strings of dirty words or pictures. Pasting pages of Muggle magazines into parts of the book so that they could be read unnoticed during class also seemed to be a favorite. The most unpleasant graffiti included changing ingredients lists in potions recipes to ones that would make the maker ill or cursed with an 'amusing' ailment – something that Hermione would have held the Weasley twins responsible for had they still been at Hogwarts.

Frowning, she reversed the concealing charm on a recipe in the fourth-year potions manual she was correcting and leafed over to the next paragraph. Her eyebrows shot up when she saw what had been drawn there.

_How could you do THAT on a broomstick?_

Several hours later, she was allowed to leave.

* * *

It was Friday afternoon.

'Miss Granger, if you would kindly stay behind for a moment.'

The voice carried clearly over the din and chatter of the seventh-year students packing up their texts in order to depart for the eagerly awaited weekend. Hermione closed her eyes, but obediently set her shoulder bag back on her desk. The rest of her classmates filed out of the classroom, doing their best to avoid looking at her. Only Harry turned his head to gaze back at her, concern visible on his face, before he was forced out of the door by the bulge of impatient teenagers behind him.

Silence fell upon the now empty classroom. The afternoon sun filtered in from the tall windows lining one side of the classroom, sending linear shafts of light across the stone tiles and wooden desks, forming abstract shadows on the far wall. The sparkling of dust motes, each speck catching and blocking the beams for a small instant, made these long light patches seem strangely alive.

'You missed the Prefect meeting last night. Were you ill?'

'No, Professor.'

A pause.

'Turn around, Miss Granger.'

Slowly, the Head Girl turned back around to face the Deputy Headmistress. Professor McGonagall was standing behind her desk at the end of the classroom, her arms crossed and head tilted partially to the right. The light backlit her figure, casting her features in half-shadow. The combined effect of lighting made the tall woman look even more intimidating than usual.

'Hermione.'

Ah. Back to the first name basis. This always signaled trouble. On the rare event that the Transfigurations professor used a students given name, it was because she was about to turn a conversation towards uncomfortable personal matters.

'Please come by my office this evening at 8 pm. I have a few things to discuss with you.'

The girl swallowed once before answering, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in her chest. A number of excuses sprang to mind before all were dismissed as woefully pathetic or flimsy. There was no way to avoid this.

'Yes, Professor,' she whispered.

* * *

It was several minutes past 11 o'clock when Minerva heard the knock on her door to her private rooms.

Wearing only her thin under-robes – she had been in the midst of preparing for bed – Minerva padded barefoot to the door and opened it, slightly apprehensive of what would be waiting outside on the threshold. She had been expecting her scheduled visitor several hours earlier and had finally decided after a long wait that her student had either forgotten their appointment – a decidedly unlikely event to be sure – or had chosen to ignore her summons.

'Miss Granger.'

_Gods, she looked pale._

'Professor.'

The young woman had the appearance of one who hadn't eaten or slept in days, even though Minerva knew through daily observation that her student had been attending meals regularly.

'Please come in.'

The first thing that Hermione noticed as she entered the room was her teachers peculiar attire.

Witch robes were generally heavy and ornate. As undergarments, long tunics made of soft material such as cotton and silk were used to keep the wool or other heavy fabric away from the skin, along with a blouse for more formal attire. The younger set generally chose the more modern short-sleeved shirts or dress tops to wear under their robes, not being able to deal with layers of complicated fabric every morning. Hermione herself couldn't stand the prospect of facing an elaborate dressing at the beginning of each day and opted for simple shirts and pants or skirts under her school robes.

Professor McGonagall was a follower of the traditional system. A long, dark green skirt, paired with a pale cream blouse, the latter made of delicate silk, composed her inner robes. In the privacy of her own room there was no need for heavier outer layer, which had been discarded on a nearby dresser.

Hermione began to shiver.

The Transfigurations teacher was preparing a pot of tea in one corner of the room, heating the water with her wand while picking two cups out of a nearby drawer with her left hand. The older woman's dark hair was down and still wet from the shower, curling naturally at the ends as it brushed her mid-back. Hermione could smell the pleasant floral scent of shampoo from where she was standing, almost five paces away.

To stop herself from staring at this peculiar sight, she occupied herself with the contents of the tabletop next to her. A ball of red wool was resting in a open wooden box on the sideboard.

'A present from Albus in celebration of my achievement of my animagus form.'

The smooth voice rose up from behind Hermione and the older woman walked up beside her, stopping next to the table and picking up the tightly bound wool from the box.

'Is it magical?'

Hermione regarded the yarn in her teachers palm with mild suspicion, half-expecting it to jump up and begin a song and dance routine on the table top. Professor McGonagall laughed softly and handed it over to her pupil, their fingers touching briefly as she dropped it into Hermione's hand.

'No. Not everything Albus gives is magical, although all of his presents are certainly _special_. He said that he simply wished me to learn to knit, which he believed would certainly be easier than the animagus training.'

'And did you?'

'I did not.' The dark haired witch frowned at the ball of wool with a fleeting expression of distaste. 'I found it very tedious work, I'd much rather read a book.'

'Or chase string?' Hermione murmured as she returned the yarn to its wooden resting place.

She was blessed with a bright, rare smile that graced her Transfiguration Professor's face for a brief moment.

'Please sit down,'

Minerva gestured to the sole chesterfield in the room, where the tea set was resting on a low table, steam rising from the cups. The teacher shadowed her student to the couch and bent down to the platter after Hermione had lowered herself onto one of the cushions.

'Ginger Newt?'

Hermione silently eyed the proffered plate with a palatable unease. Sensing her student's discomfort, Minerva quickly set the cookies back on the table, more confused than ever.

'Hermione, has –' she hesitated briefly to chose her words, '– has anything been troubling you these past few weeks?'

The teenager was staring at her hands. She didn't answer. The small degree of hope – raised by the rare display of humor from her pupil mere minutes before – that this would be a two-sided conversation died in the older witch's chest.

'I've noticed that you've been unnaturally silent during classes,' Minerva continued, leaning forward slightly with her elbows on her lap and hands clasped and looking sideways at her favourite student. 'You barely ask or answer questions and I haven't seen you socialize with or even speak to your peers during meals for the past few days.'

'You've been unhappy.'

It was hardly a question. Hermione bowed her head, several locks of hair falling in front of her face. In a rough, halting voice, the young woman began to speak.

'It's Ron,' she began. 'He's been unbearable to me for more than two months now and I just…I just can't seem to…' The girl reached down and smoothed an invisible wrinkle in her skirt with her hands. 'Is it me? I thought things had been going well. But now…'

Minerva raised her eyebrows, anticipating an explanation for the Head Girl's uncharacteristic behaviour of the past month.

'It's just….he said that…' Hermione's voice trailed off, as if she was unable to voice her thoughts. The next words came out in a rush, as if they had been cooped up for weeks and been waiting to escape the darkness.

'Professor, am I ugly?'

All of Minerva's professional experience in composure couldn't keep her jaw from dropping soundly to the floor.

'_Ugly_?' she choked out after a few moments of stunned silence, unable to keep the incredulity from her voice. Any personal theories as to why her student had been acting strangely had been instantly obliterated ten seconds ago.

'The students…they've been talking…saying that I'll never be attractive or…' The sheer effort of speaking seemed to exhaust the young woman. '...Or ever be able to find someone to "put up with me". It's like the beginning of first year all over again; I've become the person to hate. And I know that I'm being ridiculous and that I'm going to graduate in four months, but I'm not sure that I can keep on going for that long…it seems like everyone wants to see me fail.'

Hermione's voice died off and she bowed her head again, hiding her uncomfortably flushed face behind her hair. It was the only part of her body that was warm, the room seemed to be dropping in temperature and her insides felt numb. Noticing her student shiver, Minerva quietly summoned her discarded outer robes from the nearby dresser top and wrapped them around Hermione's shoulders.

'You shouldn't be blaming yourself, Hermione,' she said gently, placing a hand on her student's far shoulder. 'Mr. Weasley is simply acting like an average boy of his age. You can't expect your peers to display the same maturity that you yourself possess. Jealousy runs rampant through the school and you are a prime target due to your position and intelligence…'

Here, Minerva reached up to her students face and gently brought Hermione's gaze to meet her own with a light touch.

'…And you are _far_ from ugly, Hermione.' she added softly.

_Let us try a different route._

Silently, the Scottish witch picked up a rolled up parchment from the table and handed it to the girl beside her. Distraction seemed to be a good idea at this point and she had planned to give it to Hermione very soon anyway.

'I receive one of these every year, as does each other Head of House at Hogwarts,' she began quietly, picked up her cup of tea from the tray again. 'I do not always hand it out: it is a rare student who I feel is both capable and has the desire to enter the field. In the past twenty years, I have delivered a total of four to my students.'

Hermione unfurled the paper.

'Salem Research Institute?' she said, glancing up in obvious astonishment at her teacher. 'In North America?'

Minerva nodded, setting her teacup back on the table with a soft clink of porcelain against saucer.

'I'd like you to apply. It's one of the best graduate schools in the Wizarding World, and they don't take in any but a select few every two years.' The dark-haired witch smiled briefly. 'So of course they'd be mad not to send you an acceptance letter with a full scholarship attached.'

'Thank-you…I…I didn't expect…' Hermione stumbled for words but was silenced by her teacher's upraised hand.

'I have high hopes for you, Hermione,' the Scottish witch said gently. 'You are a brilliant student and have shown tremendous aptitude for my subject. I'm certain, whatever you chose to do after you graduate, that you will excel in your field.' The Transfigurations professor smiled. 'I could not be more proud of a pupil.'

The younger woman blushed fiercly again, looking away from her teacher in an attempt to hide her embarrassment.

A recent event tugged at Minerva's memory.

'Why _did_ you turn Mr. Weasley's desk into a giant spider?' she asked in genuine bewilderment, gazing at her student, a perplexed expression on her face. 'Compared to that, the forced transformation into a squirrel seems almost ordinary'

A watery chuckle escaped Hermione and the teenager wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, drawing Minerva's cloak closer to her body.

'He's afraid of them. Even small ones make him nervous. I thought of things that he hated most and arachnophobia was the first thing that sprang to mind.' The brunette stopped talking for a moment before continuing in a softer voice. 'I know that I over-reacted.'

Breaching her own personal rules regarding contact with other human beings, Minerva leant forward to cup the young woman's face with her hands, brushing Hermione's cheeks with her long fingers.

'You worried me,' she said seriously. 'What was even worse was that you didn't feel that you could come to me to talk, to explain _why_ you were acting the way you were. Instead, I was forced to watch you sink into yourself, all alone.'

The large hazel eyes gazed up into hers in surprise.

'I didn't mean…'

'You thought I wouldn't care.'

There was no uncertainty in Minerva's voice. Hermione opened her mouth to deny the accusation but no words came out. Smiling ruefully, the Scottish witch folded her hands loosely behind her back.

'I realize that my reputation as a cold and unfeeling harridan precedes me,' she said wryly, 'but I hope that in the future you feel that you _can_ talk to me about matters unrelated to your school-work. Contrary to popular belief, I _do_ care about my students lives outside of my classroom.'

Hermione regarded her carefully.

'You won't mind?'

'_Please_ do.' Minerva sent her pupil a rough approximation of what she considered to be a pleading look; an expression that she was unused to making. 'What I _do_ mind is my star pupil attacking her ex-boyfriend with spells that I've taught her. It does rather dreadful things to my already delicate social life.'

The two women gazed at each other for a long moment before Hermione blinked. Slowly, she stood up to leave, slipping off the shroud of Minerva's dark green over-robes that were wrapped around her torso and setting them loosely on one arm of the chesterfield. The Head Girl walked across the room towards the door but paused and looked back at her teacher as she placed her hand on the doorknob to the outside office and adjacent hall.

'Goodnight, Professor,' she said softly.

Minerva smiled gently at her.

'Goodnight, Miss Granger.'

* * *

The results of their late-night conversation appeared a mere two days later during Monday's afternoon lesson.

'And why do we generally avoid the use of reverse transfiguration on mechanical objects of Muggle creation?'

A familiar hand shot up in the sea of heads. A hand that hadn't been raised in almost a month.

'Muggle technology is generally complex, as they are unable to use magic for tasks. Without knowledge and understanding of all of the original functions of the object, there is a chance that a spell could alter them and compromise safety. It is vital that the caster have a familiarity with the desired form.'

'Exactly. Two points to Gryffindor.'

'But I disagree.'

Minerva's mouth quirked upwards.

'Would you please explain why to the rest of your classmates, Miss Granger?'

There was no hesitation.

'Even without a witch or wizard knowing how a mechanism works, the object itself has a natural tendency to slip back into its original form. Transfiguring an entity, living or non-living, into something else requires more effort than to return it to the base shape. It is innate for us to return to the familiar when we have changed against our will. A returning 'home', if that is an apt analogy.'

The rest of the class stared at their classmate as if she had just arrived from outer space.

'And who proposed this theory of yours, Miss Granger?'

A brief silence.

'You did, Professor. In your paper on Reverse Transfiguration from your graduate work.'

Hermione was rewarded with another smile.

'I see that we've been reading ahead. Five points to Gryffindor for going above and beyond the requirements for a NEWT level class.'

The murmuring in the classroom instantly became appreciative. Minerva turned back to the blackboard and pointed her wand at the complex diagrams portrayed; shifting each one to the next stage of the spell.

_It's a start._

* * *

'Professor… Professor McGonagall!'

Demelza Robins, a sixth year, ran up behind her, breathing roughly. It was obvious that the Gryffindor had conducted the entire search for her Head of House at a mad dash.

'Professor Dumbledore asked me to give you this,' the blonde girl panted out, bending at the waist and crouching down in an effort to allow more air to enter her strained lungs. Minerva took the note from the sixth year and glanced down at the short message etched in a familiar loose scrawl before nodding once at her exhausted student.

'Thank-you, Miss Robins.'

Four minutes later, the tall witch knocked twice on the oak door separating the Headmasters Office from the private revolving staircase and entered immediately. The message had hinted that the matter than required her attention was urgent.

'Run out of Sherbet Lemons again, Headmaster?' she said, greeting the occupant with a tilt of her lips.

'Not quite, Minerva'.

The perpetually cheery light was gone from her old friends eyes, replaced instead by a dreadful graveness. Minerva's expression immediately became serious and she approached the desk slowly, a chill setting into her previously warm flesh. It was very rare that she saw the man look as somber as he did now.

'What's happened, Albus?' she asked, anticipating the worst.

Silently, the elderly wizard handed her a sheet of paper, an official-looking letter with a red seal on the top of the page. Frowning, Minerva took it from him and began to scan the contents.

Her heart stopped dead when she reached the third sentence.

'Oh, _Gods_.'

She stumbled over to the nearby chair and collapsed into it, covering her mouth with one hand, the other still clutching the letter.


	3. Chapter 3

_Author's Note: _

_I finished Deathly Hallows in a record eleven hours (yes, I was there at the bookstore at midnight with my friends!) and enjoyed it more than any of the others. Hermione and Minerva seemed to be the strongest characters in the book, Harry would have been lost and gone without them. _

_I was happy to see that my theory on wands proved to be true in some sense. _

_Again, I suck at posting on time (yes, I have gotten your e-mails urging me to continue, and they do motivate me!). But you all already knew that. And this chapter's fairly long to make up for my tardiness. One last installment after this one._

_Now for something completely different and dismal. Oh, a brief note, you'll all want to murder me after the reading this. _

* * *

It was eight in the evening and rain was pounding against the glass of the sole window in the office with a vengeance. A deeply overcast sky darkened the early March landscape of the school grounds and the only light in the room came from the candles along the walls and the crackling fire in the hearth.

Closing her eyes, Minerva tilted her head up and leant against the back of her wooden chair. Her office seemed so much smaller than usual, crowded even. _Cramped_. This day was something she'd been dreading, so _sure_ that it would never have to take place again. Through an unjust and bitter cruelty, she was going to have to repeat a conversation that she had been forced to engage in far too many times before.

Someone knocked on the door.

Steeling herself, Minerva swallowed once before calling in her clear, low voice,

'Come in.'

The creaking of a door opening and light footsteps on carpeted flooring announced her expected visitor.

'Professor, you wanted to see me? I'm sorry I'm a few minutes late, I actually had a few questions about our homework for today…'

The young woman began to rummage in her book bag, pulling out a piece of parchment, two quills and some cat treats before finally reaching a slim, leather-bound book.

'Here, on page 462, Fowlis claims that Inter-species-specificity charms don't work under the Six Trans-Laws, but clearly, he contradicts…'

The Scottish witch bit down on her lower lip, hard.

'…And again, after the tenth chapter, we return to that old argument, but he already stated that it doesn'tin part six, so should we just use the literary text as a basis if…'

She would _not_ cry. She must remain strong for her student.

'…disregarding that, but I was wondering if I should look in the library for arguments against his Theorem with other research instead of just taking the straightforward approach to our term paper?'

'Miss Granger…'

Wide hazel eyes met her own in surprise. Completely trusting, never doubting, so sure that her teacher would never let any harm come to her.

It was too difficult. Voice dying off, Minerva looked away at the girl standing in front of her desk, suddenly at a complete loss for words. She was too close to the edge of emotion, too close to losing control of her own self. Her mind had been flooded by a barrage of images and feelings as soon as she looked at the young woman. Hermione Granger. Eighteen years old as of last September. Head Girl of Hogwarts. Muggle-born. Best friend of Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley. Exceptionally intelligent and perceptive. Minerva's favorite pupil from all of her teaching experience by far.

And now…

'Hermione,' the witch began again, her voice catching slightly at the name. 'I need to speak to you about something very serious.'

_Why had Albus chosen her for this? Why couldn't he have broken the news to the girl?_

The young woman was frowning at her, her hands folded behind her back – the slim text, quills and the cat treats now returned to her shoulder bag – and her head tilted marginally to one side. A physical habit that appeared when she was uncertain about something.

_I know you too well, Hermione. We're too close._

'Your parents…'

It was remarkable how quickly the girl's eyes changed. Fear had risen in them as soon as the words 'Your parents' had escaped Minerva's lips. She hated it. Every student she had broken this same news usual reacted in the same way. Horror. She had seen this too many times. She was _sick_ of having to tell each student the exact same thing.

'…have been killed.'

Dead silence greeted the words. The fireplace crackled and hissed as one of the logs split open from the intense heat.

_Get it out quickly. It will be easier for her._

'There was an accident, a car crash in London,' Minerva continued on in a rush, determined to give her student all of the information while she was still capable of talking. 'A drunk driver rammed into them when he ran a red light.'

Her throat had gone bone dry, strained from emotion. It was a wonder that she could speak.

'They died instantly. They didn't suffer.'

It was said. The dreaded news was out and now it was up to Minerva to make sure her beloved student didn't take it 'adversely', as outlined by the thrice-damned Ministry guidelines.

Hermione was staring at her, eyes wide, her body visibly shaking. Utter shock. The effect of news so terrible that the mind cannot or will not deal with it logically.

'_No_…' she whispered.

'Hermione, we...' Minerva tried to calm the young woman, getting up out of her chair, attempting to reach her verbally. It was in vain. In a flash, the Head Girl had turned away from her and, throwing open the door to the hall, bolted from the office at a dead run.

'_Hermione!'_

Her yell had no effect. Transforming to her cat-shape in mid-air, Minerva jumped over her desk and made after her student.

The leather book bag lay on the floor where it had been dropped, its contents spilling out onto the carpet.

* * *

It was late – close to nine – and the halls were devoid of students. Minerva ran down the corridors as fast as she could, paying no heed to anything except her destination. Her animagus feline senses told her that Hermione was heading for the Front Hall and she quickly made after the young woman. When she arrived, the Hall was deserted. The only clue to Hermione's whereabouts was the partly ajar door leading outside.

Into the rain.

With a curse, Minerva shifted back to her normal self and ran outside into the darkness, nearly falling down the slick stone of the steps. It was cold and miserably wet, the rain pelting down from the sky with an terrible vengeance. Quickly soaked to the skin, her heavy robes clinging to her body and her dark hair plastered across her face and neck, Minerva looked around blindly for any sign of her quarry, the wet coating her glasses. She spotted the young woman almost immediately; a crumpled form face-down on the grass some twenty feet from where she was presently standing.

Sobbing her heart out.

Hurrying over to the fallen student and kneeling down next to her, she placed her hand on Hermione's back, brushing against the drenched fabric of the younger woman's clothes. The body flinched, moving sideways to escape her touch. She followed determinedly, again pressing her hand against her student's shuddering shoulder blades.

'Hermione, _please_…'

_Please what? Dry your tears and come inside and everything will turn out for the best? Her parents are _dead, Minerva.

Minerva gazed up at the grey-sheathed sky, at a loss for any action on her part. The rain was falling harder than ever, torrential blasts hitting the two woman without reprieve. She could hear her student's sobs through the pelting water, feel her taut body shaking madly with each ragged gasp.

_She is alone._

Using all of her strength, the Scottish witch bent down and lifted Hermione to her knees. Balancing carefully on her heels, she pulled the young woman into her arms and staggered back up to her feet, wincing as she felt the weight of 130 pounds settle mercilessly on her back. Tall as she was, Minerva was of a slight build and could only carry so much. Fortunately for them both, Hermione didn't attempt to escape her teacher's grasp. A careful re-adjustment of the distribution of weight in her arms allowed her to shift her student so that she was able to walk without falling down.

It was in this way that Minerva managed to stumble back to the castle entrance, slipping occasionally on the wet grass, nearly tripping over the first of the stone-flagged steps leading up to the doors. The young woman in her arms continued to cry into her shoulder, paying no heed to either the wet or the cold.

* * *

Minerva stared at the sleeping form on the bed, her folded arms clenched tight against her body. The Hospital Wing was empty save for this patient.

'Minerva?'

Poppy was looking at her, a worried expression on her pale face. The Scottish witch turned her angular chin away and stared outside onto the gloomy grounds of the castle and forest. Her dark eyes were haunted.

'I should have been more careful,' she said softly, after a moments silence. 'I should have…'

'You can't protect them all, Minerva,' the school nurse cut in. 'A drunk muggle in an automobile can inflict just as much damage as a Death Eater with a wand.'

At this, Poppy glanced back down at the figure on the bed. She had dosed Hermione with a Sleeping Draught five minutes earlier. Nothing they had done had staunched her tears.

_And Minerva?_

The blonde nurse couldn't remember the last time she had seen her friend and colleague like this. Distracted. _Lost_.

'Do you want a Draught too?' she said quietly, 'God knows you look like you need it.'

For a moment, Poppy thought that the other witch hadn't heard her. A barely perceptible shake of the dark head finally came.

'No. Please send for me when she wakes up. I need the chance to talk to her before…'

The Scottish woman's voice trailed off into silence. Poppy finished the sentence for her.

'Before the students do.'

* * *

The whispers in the Dining Hall the next morning had already begun when Minerva arrived at breakfast.

Of all the tables in the Hall, Gryffindor's was buzzing the loudest; students huddled in groups and whispering amongst themselves. Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley were talking anxiously to each another, their breakfast all but forgotten. At the other side of the table, Ron Weasley, for once, was alone and looked strangely pale, so unlike his usual boisterous, social self.

Minerva stirred at her untouched and now stone-cold porridge. Hermione had been awake when she had visited the Hospital Wing earlier but ignored her teacher's every attempt to talk to her. The girl had even refused to look in her direction, merely turning over to face the face when Minerva had tried to make conversation.

The Transfiguration professor's appetite had vanished after that.

'Is it true that the Head Girl's parents are dead?'

Sybill Trelawney had appeared on the left side of her, the multi-coloured strands of glass beads swinging back and forth around her neck, clattering against one another noisily.

'Yes.'

Minerva only trusted herself to say the one word.

'I did see death in the cards last month.' The seer continued eagerly, peering through the thick lenses of her glasses at the Transfigurations professor. 'Alas, she would not have believed me if I had warned her, as she refuses to acknowledge my Arts as truth, clouded by her narrow-minded approach to the...'

That did it. Minerva didn't care if there were four hundred students in the Hall. She didn't care if she'd go to Azkaban for it. The asinine excuse for a teacher had finally gone too far.

'Professor McGonagall, a word if I may.'

Albus Dumbledore's tone was calm and pleasant but his right hand firmly gripped her own, which already held her drawn wand to curse the insufferable woman beside her into a million pieces.

* * *

Albus lead her to the nearest deserted classroom before turning his bright blue gaze down upon her.

'I realize that Sybill has again displayed her complete lack of regard towards normal human empathy, Minerva, but that was an extreme reaction even from you.'

The Scottish witch's jaw was clamped tightly shut, dark eyes glaring out the nearest window. Her temper was still simmering after the recent encounter in the Great Hall. Listening to a calm voice of reason was not high on list of priorities at that moment.

'I need you to accompany Miss Granger to her parents funeral on Saturday,' the Headmaster continued.

If it were possible, the tall woman's frame became even stiffer than it had been.

'She is a _ghost_, Albus!' the witch said through clenched teeth. 'I can't even get her to look at me…and you expect me to try and talk to the girl?'

'You're the one she trusts, Minerva.'

'_How DARE you!_'

Minerva spun back to face her oldest friend, her hands balled into white-knuckled fists.

'How _dare_ you say that!' she snapped again. 'I was the one who had to tell her that her parents had been killed. Me!'

'You were the best person to tell her.'

'But I could have comforted her!' The woman's voice was raw and broken. 'She has nobody to go to now! She won't even _look _at me, Potter's always busy with his training with you and Weasley's scared stiff of her. Who can she go to?'

'She will come to you, Minerva.'

Minerva wiped her eyes furiously with the side of her hand.

'Stupid, senseless way to die. If it had been Death Eaters, I could have had someone to hate and work towards getting rid of…but…' The witch turned to look helplessly at Albus, her regal features twisted into sadness. 'She's lost everything.'

* * *

The funeral service began in twenty minutes.

Dressed in a black wool coat and muggle slacks, Minerva followed her student carefully through the melting slush of the sidewalks, passing under the overhanging trees that provided shelter from the warmth of the spring sun.

Head bowed, Hermione paced along ahead of her teacher in silence. She hadn't spoke a word since they had apparated at the Ministry-approved site nearby. The young woman was wearing a dark grey jacket with her black, knee-length skirt. Even in the sunlight, she looked pale and exhausted, her curling hair drawn back away from her face with a simple metal clip.

_She looks ten years older than she actually is. _

Minerva recalled the time when her own father had died. She just turned twenty-one, and hadn't believed them at first when they had told her, hadn't _wanted_ to believe them. The funeral had been small; several friends of his, the ones who had brought his body back from Europe, and Ministry officials had taken over the planning and execution of the ceremony. She had wanted no part of the affair, only to disappear into the shadows to heal the gaping hole in her chest that her beloved father had left behind. He had been her only relative.

A white car sped by them and the younger woman in front of her flinched, stepping farther away from the curb, hugging the metal fence that lined the sidewalk.

* * *

The ceremony was well attended.

There couldn't have been less than 250 people in the pews that lined the center aisle, all dressed in somber clothing with matching expressions on their faces. The few children in the crowd were, for once, subdued. It was as though they sensed that laughter and noise would be inappropriate, showing that rare wisdom of the adolescent mind.

The service went by quickly. Several friends and relatives of Hermione's parents came forward from the audience, speaking about the two Grangers as individuals and together as a couple, how they had met, stories – humorous and serious – about their lives together. All told of how the two people had been clever, talented, well-liked and loving, taken away from their family and friends far too soon by a tragic accident.

Hermione sat in the front row, stiff-backed and very still, never moving, her hands folded in her lap. Minerva resisted the impulse to touch the young woman beside her, to try and break the wall that seemed to separate her student from the rest of the world. The witch hadn't shed a tear since that dreadful night half a week ago and showed no sign of beginning now.

She could have been made of stone.

As the last of the speakers finished, the mourners all rose as one and formed a queue. Minerva stood back a pace from the young witch, watching silently as the long line of people dwindled, each paying their respects to Hermione before walking quietly out of the door. Relatives, friends and patients of the Granger's dentistry practice all shook the young woman's hand and muttered condolences to her. Hermione's face was a mask, displaying no perceptible emotion as she thanked the guests for coming and accepted their sympathies with a few quiet words.

The Scottish witch marveled at her student's self control.

After the last couple had left the service, Hermione slowly walked up to the small collection of photos that was serving as a shrine. She stood there for almost a full minute, her shoulders slumped and face hidden from the eyes of her teacher. When the woman turned around, a pair of red roses were resting below the wedding photo of her parents, their long stems twined around each another in a simple weave.

It was the sight of the conjured flowers that finally made Minerva's throat constrict painfully and her eyes burn. Hermione walked back down the aisle through the pews and through the open door leading to the outside, not even glancing at the Transfigurations teacher on her way past. Wiping the moisture away from her cheek with her handkerchief, the witch collected herself and followed her student out into the afternoon sunlight.

They returned to the castle in silence.

* * *

'Sit.'

Immediately, Ron Weasley sat down in the chair that she pointed at. The seventh-year boy was several inches over six feet, the tallest of his siblings, and he loomed over even her own considerable stature when standing. Forcing him into a desk gave her the important advantage in height.

'I don't have to tell you why you're here.'

He rubbed the side of his freckled nose, obviously ill-at-ease.

'No, Professor.'

'Will you please tell me, just to make sure we're on the same page?'

He muttered a short sentence under his breath.

'I didn't quite hear that, Mr. Weasley.'

'You want to talk to me about Hermione,' the young man repeated, only marginally louder than before. His ears had gone redder than his hair.

Minerva lent back against her wooden desk, supporting herself with her hands.

'I do. Miss Granger needs her friends right now. I need you to set aside your recent difficulties with her and support…'

'She attacked me a week and a half ago!' Ron interrupted angrily. 'Have you ever been turned into a foot-tall, nut-eating rodent?'

'You were spreading rumors about her,' Minerva said pointedly.

'She broke up with me without giving me a reason!'

'And so you took it upon yourself to act like an immature child?'

'I didn't think it would matter to her, she's so…'

His voice trailed off. Eyebrows raised, the Head of Gryffindor waited for him to continue.

'How is she?'

Ron's voice was barely a murmur, as if he was asking this question against his will.

'Traumatized,' Minerva said truthfully. 'Her parents are dead and her best friends have deserted her.'

'She trusts you more than anyone else in the world, why can't she go to you?.'

It stung. Another reminder of how much Hermione trusted her. _Had_ trusted her.

'I was the one who broke the news to her, Mr. Weasley. Trust is rather thin between the two of us at the moment.'

* * *

Looking side to side, holding her wand aloft with its faint blue light and using her other hand to keep the Invisibility Cloak over her body, Hermione made her way silently down the corridors towards the doors of Hogwarts. A pair of large luggage bags followed her, floating a foot off of the ground and spelled with a Disillusionment charm. It had been simple to steal Harry's Cloak, and she'd send it back to him by owl as soon as she'd escaped the castle.

A sound ahead of her in the hallway made her freeze. Immediately, she extinguished her wand's light with a whisper. The wood paneled walls began to close in on her, the metal suits of armor lining the hall becoming menacing in the darkness, casting strange torch-interrupted shadows on the floor.

A cat was walking down the middle of the corridor. It had a very curious pattern around its eyes.

Hermione closed her eyes tightly and concentrated to make her breathing as quiet as humanely possible. _Why_, of all the dark and dreary corridors in the castle, had her professor chosen to walk down _this_ particular one?

The grey tabby-marked cat padded closer and wrinkled its nose, obviously smelling something that keen vision refused to reveal to her.

_Feline senses_.

Hermione bit her lip to keep the plethora of colourful Anglo-Saxon expletives in her mind silent. Things had rapidly gone from bad to _far _worse.

With muffled pop, the cat disappeared and a tall, elegant woman dressed in long green and black robes was standing several paces away.

Staring directly at Hermione's hiding place.

There was no time for the teenager to react. In three quick strides, the dark-haired witch had crossed to the space directly in front of the hidden student and, with one deft motion, reached out with her right hand and whipped the Cloak off of Hermione's body. The younger woman blurted out the first thing that came into her mind.

'Professor, I…Library…returning book'

It was a pitiful excuse. The Library had closed three hours ago. Hermione's dark travel cloak was over her shoulders and her carry bag and trunk were on the floor beside her.

Professor McGonagall stared at the luggage before fixing her pupil with a look that expressed a great deal than mere words ever could have conveyed.

'Come with me, Miss Granger,' she said quietly.

And with this, the Scottish witch strode off in the direction of her office. The sinking feeling that had materialized in the brunette's chest became even more pronounced as she reluctantly followed her Head of House down the darkened hallway, the Cloak held loosely in her hand, the end of it dragging limply along behind her.

* * *

Minerva didn't waste words.

'Where were you planning to go, Miss Granger?'

'Away.'

Hermione was standing next to the door, the Invisibility Cloak lying on the ground next to her feet. The Scottish witch resisted the urge to march over and shake her student, to snap her out of whatever unnatural mood she had been in for the past week and a half.

'Why?'

'I can't be here anymore,' came the girl's reply. 'I don't want to be here.'

'Your parents would have wanted you to finish school, you and I both know that.'

'They're dead, Professor, they won't care either way now.'

The Head Girl's tone was sardonic, bordering on mocking. Minerva gazed down at her pupil in pity.

'You don't mean that,' she said, her voice soft.

Hermione turned around and walked over to the low burning hearth, clutching her folded arms to her chest.

'I abandoned them,' she said dully, the edge in her voice sudden gone. 'I was so caught up with this new world of magic that I put it before my own family. I barely saw them for more than a few weeks each year, I studied in the summer, I didn't go back home most Christmas holidays to visit, I stayed here with my friends and didn't care about…'

'Hermione.'

Minerva's voice was soft, she had dropped her earlier strictness and was now staring at her pupil as if seeing her in a new light.

'This wasn't your fault,' she said wonderingly. 'How can you think that you are in any way to blame for the accident?'

'It's not that.'

Glistening hazel eyes met her own as the young woman looked back over her shoulder at Minerva. Finally, after days of coldness and silence, emotion had surfaced in the young witch.

'Not the accident. I never told them, never explained _why_ I had to stay here, I didn't want to frighten them with what the Wizarding world was up against, what my friends were up against. And now…' her voice caught again, choking on her words of guilt, 'and now I can never tell them. They would be ashamed that I didn't trust them, didn't want to worry them. That I placed my friends above my parents.'

'No.'

The Scottish witch moved closer to her pupil of seven years. 'I remember meeting you and your family for the first time in your sitting room, giving you your letter to this school. Your parents were overjoyed that their daughter possessed the ability for magic. I explained to them that our world, the wizarding world, was just as dangerous as the muggle world was. They accepted this, and accepted your decision to go to Hogwarts.'

Reaching out, Minerva lay a gentle hand on her student's shoulder.

'I don't believe for a moment that they ever regretted your decision to stay at Hogwarts or with the Weasleys when school was not in session,' she said quietly. 'You should never feel guilty because of it. They knew that their brave, brilliant child would never do anything to disappoint them. You never lied, you were doing everything in your power to protect them from worrying about you. You were protecting the ones that you loved.'

The moment broke. Hermione's knees buckled and she slowly slid down her teacher's frame onto the thick rug. Minerva lowered herself to the level of the floor, her unwavering, compassionate gaze fixed on the brunette's collapsed form.

'Cry, Hermione,' she said softly, touching the young woman's downturned face with the tips of her fingers. 'Do not be ashamed of tears.'

Fingers curled in the fabric of Minerva's long dark robes, hugging her teacher around the waist, the teenager buried her face in the witch's lap and began to sob uncontrollably. Minerva ran her hands through the Head Girl's hair, combing the curling strands away from Hermione's face.

'_Hush.'_

The soft touch of slow, kneading hands on Hermione's back drew her into a cloudy mesmer. Long, elegant fingers ran slowly along her scalp and through her thick hair. The warmth of body heat, unmatched by any fire, wrapping her in a comforting embrace. The young woman felt herself being lifted up and carried, but soon was in an even more comfortable place; thick covers and large pillows. The wonderful presence was once again beside her, drawing her in closer to its slim body, the blankets covering them both.

'_Sleep.'_

The voice was gentle and low, barely about a whisper. Hermione closed her eyes, the grey shroud of sleep beginning to drape across her mind.

A single tear was slowly falling from the inner corner of the older woman's eye. Bending her neck, Minerva touched her parted lips to her student's head, feeling the soft hair sliding against her cheek. At her murmured bidding, the candles in the room were extinguished and the darkness of starless night surrounded them. Holding the young woman in her arms, guarding her with her frame, the Scottish witch let herself slip into dreamless rest.

* * *

It was a little less than four months later that Albus Dumbledore stood up from his place behind the raised teachers table and held his hands up for silence.

'We have come to the closing of yet another school term,' he began, his voice echoing faintly in the large hall. 'Some lucky few of us shall not be returning next year, and I wish you all the best of luck with your life after education.'

Raucous cheers from some of the graduating year broke out. The tall wizard again gestured for quiet after a few moments of chaos.

'It is with great regret that I label the rumors of my departure from the position as Headmaster of Hogwarts as based in truth.'

A collective gasp rose up from the students in the hall.

'I have obligations that require my continual absence from the castle,' he continued, 'I had previously believed that I could perform my duties here as well, but I have discovered to my dismay during this last year that it is not to be.'

'Professor McGonagall has agreed to accept the position of Headmistress at my departure. She is capable, skilled and just as disillusioned with the Ministry as I am, so I foresee that there will be very little change in the way the school will be run.'

The old wizards bright blue eyes swept the room and his voice became solemn.

'I do warn all of you that are returning next year: your new Headmistress cannot be bribed with Sherbet Lemons as I may. Should you wish to skip detentions, I suggest sprigs of catnip as an alternative inducement.'

A wave of laughter rippled through the student's tables, breaking the grave mood that had descended upon the Hall. To the left of Dumbledore, Snape smirked darkly, the nearest that he ever came to smiling. Minerva's own wry smile was tempered with a glare at her oldest friend, who looked back and winked at her.

'So, my dear friends, as my final demand of you as your Headmaster: tuck in.'

* * *

'Hermione!'

The young woman turned around as Ron and Harry caught up to her in the empty hallway. Grabbing an arm each, they lifted her up and placed her so that she was sitting on their shoulders. In this fashion, the trio continued walking down the corridor.

'Free!' cried Ron. 'Free of school for good! I thought it'd never happen.'

'We had doubts about you passing too, Won Won.'

The red-haired boy used his free hand to slap at Harry's head.

'So. Ron's off to join his brothers at the Wizarding Wheezes, I'm off on the road with Dumbledore on our quest to rid the world of You Know Who and you, Hermione, are flying to America tomorrow.'

'Yes.'

'We're finally splitting up after seven years of adventure.'

'Seems like longer, sometimes.'

This time, it was Hermione that smacked Ron from her lofty position.

'Ow!'

Laughing, the three friends fell apart, Hermione sliding down to the stone floor and landing on her feet.

A door opened and Professor McGonagall swept out, looking regal in her long red robes. Her expression softened once she saw who was making the noise.

'Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley…'

Dark eyes met the gaze of the last member of the group, but turned away after the briefest of moments.

'…Miss Granger.'

Harry was smiling.

'Professor. Congratulations on the appointment.'

'Thank you, Mr. Potter…Harry,' Minerva corrected herself. 'It was a choice between myself and Professor Snape. The Ministry went with the less exciting option.'

'That's a relief. Mr. Tall, Dark and Oily would bring this place to rubble after two semesters if he was put in charge.'

'I'll pretend that I didn't hear that, Ronald.'

Despite the mock strictness, there was no hiding the amusement in her voice.

'I must be off, I have much to do. Gentlemen, have a wonderful summer. Hermione, I wish you luck in your studies.'

Nodding at them all one last time, the new Headmistress walked down the hall without a backwards glance at her former students.

'That was weird,' Ron said to no one in particular.

'Let's go to the Common Room, we'll need to say goodbye to everyone before we leave and we won't get the chance to see them all on the train.'

For the first time since Professor McGonagall had appeared, Hermione spoke aloud. Motioning for them to follow, she made her way quickly in the direction of the Fat Lady's Portrait.

Exchanging puzzled looks, Harry and Ron began to trail their friend back to Gryffindor Tower.

'Is it just me, or did she not say goodbye to her favorite teacher of all time?'

'Beat's me. I've never seen McGonagall treat her like…'

'Boys!'

'Coming!'


	4. Chapter 4

_Author's Note: _

_Pardon my absence. This year has been fraught with interesting experiences. Lots of repeated moving houses due to reasons completely beyond my control. Lots of changes at my workplace of two years also, mostly problem-employee related. But I survived. _

_Most of this part was written a year ago, I just had no place to stick it in up until now (although it's been edited to fit this story). I have dozens of short sections written that I've yet to find a place for, all of which will eventually find a home in my stories, long or short. _

* * *

The annual December celebration of the wizarding community – organized by the Ministry for Magic – was in full swing and laughter and chatter could be heard from every corner of the expansive room. A small orchestra of mixed stringed instruments played upbeat waltzes from their place on a raised platform opposite the entranceway. It was the eleventh anniversary of Voldemort's defeat and Harry Potter, the 'Savior of the Wizarding World' was scheduled to make an appearance later in the evening and much of the eager gossip was centered around the topic of the recent birth of his first child with his wife of eight years.

Minerva McGonagall glared out at the crowd over the rim of her glass goblet, silently grinding her teeth. As Headmistress of Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry, she was expected to attend these functions in formal attire and chat politely with anyone who wished to speak with her.

Her job description, however, did not stipulate that she had to _enjoy_ it.

It was hardly riveting company. Ministry workers, dignitaries of various countries and members of the Board of Governors comprised ninety percent of the guest population of three hundred people along with their equally dull partners. As far as she could tell, there was not an intelligent being in the whole crowd. If she was lucky, the already packed ball room would fill with more people and she could slip out unnoticed. It was a strategy that had never failed her in the past.

A light tap on her arm interrupted her train of thought.

* * *

'Ah, there's someone you likely haven't met in a long time.'

Hermione Granger twisted her features into what she hoped vaguely resembled a smile and steeled herself for yet _another_ round of introductions. She had allowed the hostess, a bubbly older woman named Audrea Smith, to drag her around to the various small groups of guests, greeting old friends and enemies alike. A rough estimate put her at sixteen separate introductions so far – leaving her with approximately two hundred and seventy three to go. Two hundred and seventy three people. She wanted to scream. Failing that, whipping out her wand and transfiguring the irritating hostess ahead of her into a chicken would be an acceptable alternative.

But hardly appropriate.

Feeling distinctly sorry for herself, she obediently walked behind the woman who was causing her all this undue agony and prepared to meet the next boorish guest and his wife. To her surprise, Audrea instead touched the arm of a tall witch dressed in rich dark green who had her back to them. Puzzled, Hermione stepped closer.

Her heart stopped dead in her chest when the woman turned around.

* * *

'I'm sure it's been quite a while since you two have seen each other,' Audrea bubbled.

Minerva barely registered the woman's words. _Hermione Granger_. What in the _world_ was she doing here? Last she'd heard, the young woman had been somewhere in North America completing research for the Salem Witches Institute. Far, far away from Hogwarts.

It had been thirteen years since they'd spoken face to face.

'Minerva. How nice to see you again.'

Hermione's expression spoke otherwise: she was wearing a smile that could have frozen the Thames. The perpetually cheerful Audrea Smith was looking back and forth between the two witches, obviously pleased at her prodigious skill in having reunited two long-lost friends at her party.

'Hermione.'

Minerva gathered her long-lost student into a loose, one-armed embrace but released Hermione almost immediately. The chill of hidden rage in the younger witch had increased ten-fold when they had touched. Still burning after all these years.

_And likely for many more._

But she could do her former student a small favour. And try to make peace between them at the same time.

'Audrea, may I steal Hermione away from you for a while?' Minerva smiled at the elderly woman, the first time she'd made the expression that evening. 'We have a great deal of catching up to do.'

The gray-haired hostess happily nodded her assent and skipped off in search of the next guest in need of introduction. Hermione gazed after the woman in an almost wistful manner before turning to face her new adversary.

* * *

'Shall we sit down?'

The Scottish witch had been looking around for an empty table and finally spotted one in the far corner by a set of tall windows overlooking the balcony. They walked silently across the room, avoiding the clusters of chattering guests and couples. Minerva sat down first, setting her wine-glass on the table and gracefully balancing herself of the edge of the wooden chair. She steepled her fingers so that the tips rested against her lips and directed her gaze onto her former pupil. Hermione pulled out the other chair and placed her back to the room of people, leaning her arms against the tabletop and gazing out past the glass of the nearby window.

She didn't look at her former teacher.

'When did you get back?'

Minerva's voice was soft with curiosity. Hermione had almost forgotten about the slight Highland lilt in her speech – always evident when the woman was dealing with emotional stress. Pushing this long-buried and exceedingly unwelcome memory out of her mind she organized her thoughts. Hermione was well accustomed to verbal sparring from her academic studies but this conversation would require all of her concentration and effort.

She _had _to win.

'Yesterday,' she answered promptly in a semi-monotone. 'We finished our paper last week but I had things to take care of in Boston before I left. I just moved into a flat in the city this morning.'

'And what are you doing now?'

'Working for the Ministry, hence my invitation to this party.'

Long, tapered fingers traced ornate designs on the glass goblet's rim. Minerva's dark eyes were unreadable and they never moved from Hermione's face. It was not a calculating gaze, merely one of extreme curiousity and attention, as if the woman was trying to decide what to do next and, at the same time, worried about making the wrong move.

At the other side of the room, the orchestra had finished their lively piece and were beginning another, slower-paced, waltz.

'I missed you.'

It was an extremely personal admission from the perpetually impassive witch. The brunette ignored it and continued to stare out of the frost-touched window onto the white lawn. After a moment's silence, the older woman spoke again, voice low and filled with emotion, uncharacteristically pleading.

'Hermione, please. Don't let's start this _again_.'

Hazel eyes finally locked with her own. Cold as ice.

'I still haven't forgotten about what you did to me, _Professor_.'

It worked. Minerva flinched and her index finger slipped off the rim of the cup. Hermione had gotten more of a reaction with one snapped sentence than she would have if she'd hit Minerva with her fist.

_Good_. Hermione felt a wave of satisfaction wash over her. The woman deserved it after all that had happened.

To her disappointment, her former teacher recovered almost instantly. The deep eyes, which had widened with shock and hurt just moments before, became guarded once again. Leaning back, the woman spoke one last time, speech infused with the normally hidden Scottish accent.

'I see that you haven't. Goodnight, Dr. Granger. I wish you all the luck in the world with your research. Maybe you'll find your answers, even if your theories turn out to be wildly off the mark.'

Every vowel was sharply clipped to a point. In one graceful movement, Minerva rose out of her chair and left the table without another word.

* * *

Dodging groups of laughing and slightly inebriated guests with practiced ease, Minerva strode across the room to the doorway and walked outside into the hall. Summoning her winter cloak from the rack in the hall, she swung it over her shoulders and left the house without a backward glance, disapparating as soon as she was on the steps.

She could never allow any of the other guests to see her cry.

* * *

It was almost a month later that Hermione received the letter. She had been sorting through her mess of paperwork when the purple parchment flew through the door and fell onto her cluttered desk. With the whisper of paper, it had unfolded itself and begun to nudge against Hermione's hand, silently demanding to be read. Frowning, the woman abandoned her onerous task of re-writing a bibliography for a paper that was due to be published and picked the message up, noting the official Ministry seal at the bottom.

_Dr. Granger,_

_We have been informed by the Governors of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry that they are in urgent need of a Transfigurations professor for one term. You are hereby released for five months from your research in order to fill this vacant position, starting next Monday. _

_As you very well know, it is imperative for the Ministry to maintain strong ties to the school and directors. We apologize for any inconvenience that this may have caused you._

_Have a wonderful day,_

_Majorie Helsik,_

_Office of Interdepartmental Affairs_

_Ministry of Magic_

Hermione stared at the letter, shocked beyond words. It had to be a nasty joke. It couldn't be real. The Ministry had obviously confused her with someone else. She was in the middle of an important project and she couldn't entrust it to anyone else lest it go wrong and skew the results and ruin their work. The idiots _knew_ that.

Minerva. She must have had a hand in it. After all, she was the Headmistress of the school and doubtlessly could have found numerous teachers to fill the position. The woman had contacts everywhere, including the Ministry.

And influence.

But deep in her heart, Hermione knew that her former teacher would never have done anything like this to her. Minerva McGonagall could be stern, rigorously exacting and frustratingly taciturn. The witch would never, however, be cruel or petty in her dealings with others, it wasn't part of her nature, Minerva was far too honest.

Damn the woman.

* * *

She apparated outside the Hogwarts gates two days later, after a rush of sending messages by owl to her various international collaborators explaining her situation and placing experiments in magical stasis. Unsurprisingly, Minerva was waiting for her in the Front Hall and walked towards her once she came through the doors.

'Dr. Granger. I'm glad that you accepted the Governors' offer.'

Her voice bore no trace of the accent that it had had when they had last met – it had returned to the precise enunciation that it always had been. The younger woman gave a tight smile and set her single piece of luggage down on the stone floor with more force than was necessary.

'The Ministry was quite _insistent_ that I accept.'

The Headmistress ignored Hermione's acerbic tone.

'The teacher that you are replacing was accused of shady dealings with some unscrupulous wizards and was arrested last week. The Board wanted a professional in the field and you were immediately nominated as a candidate. Several of the Governors have children that are students here and your recent successes practically guaranteed that they would ask the Ministry to loan you to them for a term.'

'So I'm a token gift of peace between the two warring factions? How droll.'

Minerva's slight smile didn't reach her dark eyes.

'Your rooms are where mine used to be. You'll also find my old lesson plans on the office table – should you need them – along with a summary of the term requirements for the classes. I trust that you remember the way.'

And with that short greeting, Minerva turned on her heel and strode through the archway of one of the side halls, leaving Hermione to walk to the rooms by herself.

Alone.

* * *

Hermione sat down on the crimson-canopied bed by the tall windows, having finished unpacking her belongings and organizing them into the various chests of drawers. Rubbing the heel of a hand over her eyes, she attempted to sort out her emotions. Frustration, anger at the Ministry and the Board of Governors, and one other sensation that she hadn't experienced in many years.

The hollow feeling that had settled deep in her chest ever since Minerva had greeted her that afternoon.

'_Why should I feel bad? She's the one who…'_

Her throat began to burn in a familiar and unwelcome way.

_No. I'm not going to start sobbing over this. I've gotten over it. I have. _

She punched her pillow as hard as she could and then, exhausted, frustrated and far beyond anger, Hermione threw herself face down on the bed and cried herself to sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

_Author's Note: One more chapter after this one. _

* * *

Weeks passed and Hermione gradually began to allow that teaching at Hogwarts was turning out to be more enjoyable than her earlier pessimism had predicted. Her students respected her and worked hard, the teachers, both familiar and new, welcomed her into their lives immediately and, when time permitted, she was able to work on small experiments and continue her research in her rooms. There was only one thing about her unexpected situation that was truly upsetting;

Minerva ignored her.

Hermione had never realized how much it would hurt to be treated as if she didn't exist. Throughout her life she had always been the center of attention, from having a childhood with loving parents, being the best friend of the Boy Who Lived, the top student at Hogwarts and the Institute and finally a world-renowned researcher in the wizarding world. Being disregarded by Minerva McGonagall, a woman that she had promised herself that she would never care about again, hurt far more than it should have.

No shared smiles. No short discussions on new theories of spells and enchantments that had been published. Simple yes or no answers at staff meetings. No conversation other than what was absolutely necessary for day to day order. The list went on and on. Only indifference and frosty politeness. Emotional distance and detachment.

It drove Hermione wild.

The weekly staff meetings were by far the worst.

'We have had a number of requests for transfer students from Beauxbatons; an exchange of students for a term or so. There are, however, concerns over disruption of student's class schedules, given the difference in magical subject matter between Beauxbatons and Hogwarts.'

The Headmistress of Hogwarts was sorting through a pile of parchment and slid out a large and obscenely ostentatious sheet covered in gold leaf and light blue ink that sparkled when it caught the light.

'The fifth and seventh years can't go,' said the new Charms professor immediately, glancing down at the letter. 'OWLS and NEWTS need a year to prepare for, at least if not more.'

'Maybe in the fourth year? No worries about conflicting with the OWLS if it was early in the first term,' Neville Longbottom offered from several seats down.

Xiomara Hooch frowned.

'We are ignoring the fact that very few of our students are even partially fluent in French, aren't we? And I wouldn't trust our present generation of fourth years any more than our first; just last week I caught eight of them sneaking out to Hogsmeade after dark to see Osmandius MacFusty's Welsh Green that had escaped.'

'It was a Hebridean Black, Xiomara,' corrected the elderly Care of Magical Creatures professor at the far end of the table. 'Don't you remember _anything_ I taught you fifty years ago?'

'Never really could tell my dragons apart. They all have teeth and like to snack on people. That tends to catch my attention more than the colour of their hide.'

'Very untrue; the Antipodean Opaleye has never been implicated in an attack on a human and the Welsh Green is almost universally…'

'Couldn't they have a chaperone along with them?' Hermione interrupted, turning back to look at Minerva. 'To assist with integration and language issues? That way they could be kept in line and you could make sure that they weren't drifting away from the subjects required in their OWLS.'

'Your suggestion will be taken into consideration, Dr. Granger,' the tall witch said quietly, not bothering to look at her newest staff member. 'Next order of business is the visit of the Governors three days from now; who's turn is it to entertain the pompous benefactors?'

Both Xiomara and Poppy Pomfrey looked surprised at the Headmistress's cool tone towards her former student and Septimia Vector turned on her chair to stare questioningly at the woman beside her as if to ask Hermione what she had done to tick off Minerva.

* * *

Flurries of snow announced the arrival of March. The students spent the time they should be using for studying throwing snowballs (or in some cases, bewitching them) at one another and anyone else that was unlucky enough to walk by. Peeves had revived his old and rather unpleasant annual habit of sneaking up on spectators and shoving large quantities of snow down the backs of their robes. Hermione had been the victim of one of these incidents several days previously and Peeves had been avoiding her ever since. As a matter of fact, Peeves was avoiding everyone at the moment. Did he expect her to remove the charm that she had placed on him just by being nice to her? His manners had vastly improved with the change of wardrobe. She was seriously considering making the alteration permanent.

Who had known that the poltergeist would look good in a pink ballet tutu?

'Professor Granger?'

Hermione turned around, eyebrows raised in anticipation of a question. One of her third years from the Slytherin/Ravenclaw block on Wednesdays and Fridays had raised his hand in the front row.

'Is it true that you were the Head Girl when you were here?'

'Yes, Mr. Appleby, I was.'

'Did you have Professor McGonagall as your teacher, then?'

Abruptly, Hermione's cheery mood changed to something far grayer.

'I did,' she answered warily. 'Why do you wish to know?'

'You mean, you really got to have her as a Transfigurations teacher?'

If anything, the boy seemed more eager than before. Indeed, his classmates had begun to look up from their silent class assignment, all now attentive to the previously private conversation.

'Is it true that she can change into a cat? My mother told me that she could.'

This question had come from one of the Slytherins in the back.

'Professor McGonagall is a cat animagus, yes.'

'And that she was in the war with He Who Must Not Be Named, too?'

_For heaven's sake, who in __England __**wasn't**__ involved with the war with Voldemort during those years?_

'I heard she fought off six Death Eaters single-handedly when they attacked the castle,' piped up a Ravenclaw by the window.

'And led Dumbledore's followers after he had fallen,' called another.

'She was hit by four stunners when that Umbridge woman was here and nearly died, right?'

'And…'

'_Ladies and Gentlemen!_'

It came out more sharply than she had intended, but her raised voice had the desired effect of commanding absolute silence from her charges.

'I will guarantee you _all_ that your venerated Professor McGonagall would find this a pointless interruption and waste of class time, and give you extra homework because of it. We are, at present, studying the theory behind inter-species transformation in mammals. Continue with your work. _Silently_!'

The class didn't make a sound for the rest of the day.

* * *

The final straw came exactly one week later at ten o'clock in the evening.

'And then…._Whoosh!_ The Ministry official was covered in a pile of treacle tart and Minerva was standing over him in a rage, wand drawn and ready. The man couldn't have been more shocked if Voldemort had appeared in his bathtub and demanded a bottle of hair conditioner! He high-tailed it out of there faster than a hippogriff on fire!'

Septimia Vector laughed shrilly at the memory and drained the rest of her bottle of Ogden's Best Fire Whisky in one gulp. Hermione frowned at her own still half-full bottle and wondered why she hadn't finished more. It may have been her first time drinking the stuff but she certainly had reason enough to finish it. Xiomara Hooch had stumbled out of Vector's rooms twenty minutes earlier, muttering something about checking up on the new Quidditch hoops that she had installed that afternoon. The Quidditch coach had finished off her bottle with practiced ease and seemingly little effect.

The same could not be said for Hermione.

After a sleepless night the day before - due to her insistence on handing back papers the next class - she had survived her day's lessons with less than her characteristic charm. It had taken all of her willpower not to turn her talkative second years into toads during the last period of the afternoon. She did not generally take to imbibing large quantities of alcohol, but her two co-workers had been insistent and Hermione's self control was at an all time low.

_Minerva this, Minerva that. Everywhere I go she's paraded around like the Goddess she was named for. Always thought of as what we should aspire to. The perfect witch. _

'You know, Hermione. I've noticed you hardly talk to our dear Headmistress.'

Hermione stiffened.

'Gods. When you were at school, you two were as thick as thieves. Minerva never gets close to anyone, ever – 'cept maybe Dumbledore, back then – but you and her, well, I always did wonder…'

Septimia's voice trailed off into alcohol blurred mumbling and it was some time before some degree of clarity came back.

'…of course, Minerva would never have even dreamed of doing anything that was improper and certainly never acted on it if she had…a pity that she's always deprived herself of any chance of affections from another person, Merlin knows she deserves some love in her life after all she's been through over the years.'

She didn't even notice when Hermione rushed out of the room.

* * *

Hermione stormed into the Headmistress's office without knocking, slamming the oak door loudly behind her.

To her fury, Minerva didn't even look up from her writing.

'It is customary to knock before entering private rooms, Dr. Granger.'

That hated voice, so calm and controlled. The younger woman strode towards the desk in the center of the circular room, livid with rage.

'I didn't think you'd acknowledge me if I did! You've been ignoring me ever since I arrived!'

The dark-haired woman behind the desk inclined her head slightly, eyes down, standing up smoothly and turning around without a glance at her furious visitor to retrieve a folder out of the set of wooden filing cabinets against the back wall.

'I don't deny it,' the witch said, her back still to her former student. 'I have accorded you the same politeness that you intended to impose on me and it upsets you. I asked forgiveness on several occasions and you refused to give it to me.' Minerva paused as she pulled out the folder she had been searching for and examined its contents. 'You made it very clear that you did not care to renew our previous friendship and…'

Hermione stood up even straighter than she had been before, shoulders back, hands balled up into white-knuckled fists. _Friendship?_ Is that what she had called it?

'Forgive you? _Forgive you? _After what _you_ did to _ME?_'

Minerva's iron self-discipline finally snapped. Shoving the cabinet drawer closed with a colossal crash, the Headmistress spun around to face her former student, lip curled up in anger and eyes flashing dark flame.

'Yes! I did expect that you would have done so after more than a_ decade _of silence! Was that too much to expect? Or are you still clinging to a grudge concerning an insult that you seem to think I inflicted upon you, Hermione!'

The next words came fast and low.

'I have no regrets about my decision. You seem to be blissfully unaware of how much danger we would have been in had I _not_ refused you.'

'I knew exactly the trouble we could…' Hermione cut in, attempting in vain to stop this verbal tirade that she had instigated.

'You would have been expelled from Hogwarts,' Minerva continued, overriding her interruption without a pause. 'The Board would have fired me as soon as they'd found out and sent me to Azkaban at the first possible moment. You were a student, Hermione…_a student_! Your parents entrusted us with your care and should never for a moment have to worry that we might abuse it!'

Breathing heavily, Minerva's voice dropped off, quavering slightly with what might be…almost…_shame_?

'And there I was…you'd just confessed and I was actually thinking about risking it all. Of running after you.'

* * *

Hermione burst into Minerva's office after a hastily spoken password and ran through the first room to the private quarters behind it. Practically falling over one of the red armchairs that was set in front of the fireplace, she collapsed on the floor out of breath, and shakily handed out an already opened letter to the very surprised witch seated in the other chair.

_Ms. Granger,_

_We are pleased to inform you that you have been selected out of three hundred other candidates to begin the intensive study course at Salem Witches Institute. As you already know, the course is four years long and will require you to move to __America__. In consideration of your exceptional marks and location, the Institute offers you a full scholarship should you accept our invitation and will…_

Minerva skimmed over the rest of the letter. After taking a moment to collect herself she stood up and helped the still exhausted Head Girl to rise from the carpet. Once Hermione was on her feet, Minerva pulled her into a tight embrace and murmured into the young woman's hair,

'I cannot imagine a more deserving person – I am so happy for you.'

To the older woman's surprise, Hermione didn't let go as expected after the moment of close physical contact but instead moved a hand up to Minerva's neck. The tall witch stiffened. The girl's other hand slipped up to caress her teacher's cheek. And leaned closer towards her.

'Ms. Granger…' the witch intoned.

Instinctively, Minerva closed her eyes as fingers stroked her jaw, drawing a pleasant warmth into her skin.

This is wrong.

'Ms. Granger…' she murmured weakly.

No matter how good it felt, she _shouldn't_.

She opened her eyes to see the younger witch's parted lips only inches from hers.

Stop it while you can.

'_Hermione!_'

It came out more as a gasp than a rebuke. Her student's eyes opened and Hermione pulled away, surprised. For a long, silent moment, the two women stared at one another. Slowly, the Transfigurations teacher pulled down Hermione's hands from her face and held them loosely in front of her.

'We cannot,' she said softly, turning her head to one side, unable to meet the girl's eyes. 'It isn't right.'

Hermione's eyes were wide with shock.

'But I'm going to graduate in three days! I'm of age! I won't be your student any more…we can!'

Minerva stepped back a pace. Distancing herself, returning to safer ground.

'I know that you care about me this way!' Hermione's voice was almost frantic in its desperation.

And, damn her soul, the Scottish witch did. Turning away, moving towards the fireplace, Minerva folded her arms in front of her chest.

'You have just been accepted to one of the top Institutes on a full scholarship,' she said quietly. 'I will not have you throw it all away just so that you can be with me. Neither of us can afford that.'

She didn't need to see Hermione's face to know that the poor student looked beyond astonished.

'You're choosing Hogwarts over me?'

It broke her heart to do this. Minerva slowly looked back over her shoulder, trying to fight off the gathering moisture in her eyes that threatened to fall and betray her. Any sign of weakness and she would be unable to continue her refusal.

'You would do the same if you were in my position, Hermione,' she said quietly.

The hazel eyes that she had admired so often welled up with bright tears. The younger woman swallowed once, twice, three times before whispering in a shaking voice,

'V…very well…Professor.'

Minerva's throat tightened.

'Hermione…I think that we should-'

The Head Girl turned around without a word and walked out of the room, pausing at the door for only a moment. She glanced at her teacher one last time and opened her mouth to say something, but seemed to change her mind and left without another word.

The door closed with a quiet click behind her.

Minerva buried her face in her hands and dropped to the floor in front of the fireplace, leaning her forehead on the seat of the armchair. The tears came almost immediately.

* * *

A sharp ache behind Minerva's eyes signaled an impending loss of her already tenuously balanced control. Hermione seemed to be in a state of shock, her mouth was open but she wasn't making a sound. The young woman looked just like she had that fateful night, utterly unprepared for what Minerva was telling her, so _convinced _that she had known what her teacher would do. So sure she could predict with that wonderful, brilliant mind of hers what would happen.

'You left three days later, without a farewell, ignoring me when we passed in the halls. You never answered my letters. You never replied to my messages. That selfish behaviour separated us for thirteen years, Hermione. For all your intelligence, for all your aptitude for learning and comprehension, you were_ blind_.'

Tears began to run down her cheeks. She didn't even pause to wipe them away.

'You said that you loved me and yet…and yet you refused to forgive me for something for which I had _no_ _choice_. You have no right to solely blame me for what happened.'

'Your parents. Your poor, loving parents. You suffered so much during the space of a few months and I couldn't bear to dishonor their memory by engaging in something like _that _with you, when you were at your most vulnerable. You were so mature, but so young. Too young.'

Minerva's voice cracked during the last sentence. Tears continued to trickle down her face, but she keep her gaze locked onto the younger witch's now horrified eyes. She would not look away. Hermione had to know that she was telling the absolute truth.

Rendered completely speechless by what she had unleashed, in shock at seeing the tears on Minerva's face, Hermione slowly backed up a few steps and, suddenly losing her nerve completely, raced to the door and rushed back down the stairs to the hall below.

* * *

Gulping in air with shuddering gasps, Hermione paced her room in random patterns.

The woman's eyes had been so haunted…she had weathered Hermione's accusations and not protested and…

No! It was Minerva's fault…refusing to give in _just once_ to her emotions.

She had had no choice. The age difference. The _bloody_ age difference of sixty-odd years. It didn't matter what Minerva looked like, how young she looked, it was the cold, hard principle of the thing: she had been almost four times Hermione's age. She could have been her _great-grandmother_.

But her younger self, her eighteen-year-old self, hadn't cared. The crush that had been slowly growing during the previous years burst into fully-fledged love during the middle of her seventh year. She had broken off with Ron, sparking, unintentionally, the animosity of most of her peers.

And Minerva McGonagall had noticed her loneliness and helped her through it.

And then her parents were killed. And the one person she loved most in the world had told her that they were dead.

Had it been punishment from some greater force for her misdirection in love? Hermione had wondered for a time, a one-time lapse in her disbelief of higher forces. She had tried to shut her teacher out of her life, tried to shut out the feelings that she was so suddenly even more ashamed of than she had been previously.

And despite her coldness towards the woman, despite her every attempt at keeping her feelings under the surface whenever Minerva was around, the witch she loved and admired with all her heart had managed to bring her emotions into the light. Supported her through the whole affair, stopped her from running away from all the pain that night she almost escaped, held her as the tears ran down her cheeks and carried her to bed and comforted her in her arms as Hermione cried herself to sleep.

The realization that her feelings towards her idol might be mutual had risen then.

Ron had grown to be a friend again over the aftermath of those horrible weeks. He and Harry and herself finally became a close-knit group once more. But Hermione had never told them about her feelings, even though she suspected that Harry knew more than he was letting on.

It was after four months of Head Girl meetings, after-class extra assignments, questions about books and late-night discussions of new theories that the letter came.

A scholarship, fully paid. Across the ocean. World-renowned.

But she would have been willing to throw it all away for one person.

And the woman she loved with all her heart, the woman who she _knew _loved her back, had refused her.

The horror, the anger, the embarrassment of it all.

And so she had left and gone to America and buried herself in study and learning and the cold, clinical work of academia. Tried to ignore the news of Voldemort's growing power. The news of the deaths of classmates and their relatives. Of people she had known. Of war and violence.

And Voldemort had been defeated two years later.

Albus Dumbledore had been killed in the final battle inside the walls of Hogwarts itself. The British wizarding world had been thrown into disarray, so many had been killed over the years of terror. Harry Potter was hailed as the double savior and had led them into a new era. Hermione had kept in contact with him throughout the whole mess.

And ignored every message from Minerva McGonagall.

She never let herself read the letters. It would have been too great a temptation. It was far better to forget about her old life and view her home as an outsider would. She had few attachments to it, anyway.

Or so she told herself.

And, after more than twelve and a half years of absence, she returned to the country that she had once called home. The Ministry of Magic had offered her a position that she couldn't refuse.

Harry and Ginny had been overjoyed to see her.

And then, the Christmas party.

And _she_ had been there.

Tall, elegant, reserved. And still just as beautiful as she had been when Hermione had last seen her.

Rage tore out of her. Unbidden and utterly uncontrolled, so rarely seen in a fully trained adult witch, an arc of magical energy sprang into being as an offshoot of her scattered emotional state. There was a blinding flash and a colossal crash of wood shattering and stone cracking and then utter silence.

In the cloud of stone dust and splinters of wood, a woman lay on the floor.

Unmoving.


	6. Chapter 6

_Author's Note: And the last chapter to this story. It's been a long wait, but it's finally finished. _

* * *

It was the sound of scattered bird song that roused her from her deep slumber.

Stifling a yawn, Hermione squinted against the bright sunlight that was streaming in from the tall window in her rooms. Pushing the heavy covers off of her body, rolling slowly over to one side of the mattress with a groan, she reached sleepily to the bedside table in search of the clock. The time of day might give her some clue as to the events leading up to her present perplexing position. Was it Monday? Had she even finished grading the third-year's assignments? And _why _did her head feel like it had been used as a Bludger in a Gryffindor/Slytherin Quidditch game?

She froze mid-search. Now that she thought about it, she couldn't really recall anything at all, her mind preoccupied by the fact that her skull pounding in a moderately painful manner. A horrible thought struck her, beating in counter-point to the dull staccato of her already-throbbing head.

Had she been_ drinking?_

The opportunity to ponder this unpleasant realization in any great detail passed Hermione by when the other occupant of the room chose that precise moment to make their presence known.

'That was a spectacular explosion last night, Professor Granger.'

The smooth, and dreadfully familiar contralto voice jerked Hermione's head around to the other side of the bed.

Minerva McGonagall was sitting next to her in an armchair, long legs tucked gracefully underneath her body and the slightest of smiles gracing her face.

Hermione pulled up the covers to her chin in a symbolic gesture of defence.

'How long have you been here?' she demanded.

Dark eyes regarded her calmly.

'Nine hours. You blew out the wall between the outside office and the inner rooms and knocked yourself out. It made quite a racket.' The woman paused for a moment and reached over to the side table to retrieve a china cup from a small tray with one hand. 'I patched you up myself – it would have been cruel of me to wake Poppy up at two in the morning on a Saturday.'

A robin chirped cheerily outside.

'Tea?'

Hermione stared at steaming cup of tea and then up at the person offering it to her, completely incapable of forming a sarcastic retort. She would have expected anything but this from a woman that she – fully drunk at the time – had screamed at in her own office the evening before.

Most confusing of all, Minerva seemed almost…for lack of a better word…_amused_.

'Oh yes,' her former teacher continued, setting the cup back down on the wooden trousseau and folding her hands in her lap. 'You've stopped drinking it, haven't you. The Americans broke your habit.'

There was a pause as their eyes met.

It finally occurred then to Hermione that – even after attending the witch's classes for seven whole years – even after falling madly in love with her - and even after holding a grudge towards her for more than thirteen years - she had hardly ever even _scratched_ the surface of the woman that was Minerva McGonagall. The depth of the witch's character was almost beyond human comprehension.

This realization made her feel foolish, immature, and very, very stubborn all at the same time.

The lengthy pause stretched onwards into stillness, the only noise being the chattering of birds outside the windows.

'I think my manners might have suffered somewhat during my stay too.'

The younger woman's voice was soft.

Minerva tilted her head to one side, regarding Hermione as if she were a puzzle to be solved.

'I suppose that the bright young woman I fell in love with all those years ago is still in there? Somewhere?'

Finally unable to meet the witch's eyes, Hermione bowed her head, full of shame. Tears began to trickle down her face and fall onto the covers below.

'I missed you,' the dark haired woman said gently.

It was the same thing that she had said at the Christmas party. Mere moments later, a shadow crossed across the coverlet and a gentle touch tilted her chin back up.

Soft dark eyes gazed into the bed-bound woman's, filled with compassion and understanding. Unable to bear it, unable to accept that Minerva was actually there and saying these things that she had waited _so long_ to hear, Hermione turned away, hiding her eyes, biting her lip to keep from making a sound. Here she was - a fully grown, thirty-one year-old woman - crying in front of her childhood teacher.

'We've both being displaying that famous Gryffindor pride to the nines, haven't we?'

Minerva's voice was warm and self-deprecating. A dry sob rose in Hermione's throat and she gasped, trying to hold it in, trying to hide how much she _hurt_.

'I loved you so much,' she finally whispered to the wall, her voice shaking with the effort of controlled speech. 'I never stopped thinking about you. I couldn't. So many years wasted because I refused to see your side or accept the reasons behind your choice.'

A light touch, fingers stroking her hair, sinking into the strands and slowly combing through the loose curls that were still in disarray from the bedcovers.

'Are you free for dinner tonight, Hermione? I do believe we have some catching up to do.'

* * *

Hermione clenched and un-clenched her hands, trying to warm them from their frozen state. A nagging voice in her head told her that she should have worn something more sensible for walking around in late winter temperatures inside a gigantic stone castle with next to no insulation. But the dress suited her well and robes would have been too…

Abruptly, Hermione's mental processes came to a grinding halt when she arrived at the top of the spiral staircase and saw who was standing there at the open door.

The Headmistress raised her eyebrows in expectation.

The younger woman mutely stared at her host, slowly running her eyes down the witch's body to her legs and back up again to her face.

Minerva smirked in a decidedly un-Minerva-like way.

'I do believe that you're at a loss for words, Dr. Granger. I _am_ flattered.'

Blushing like the schoolgirl she had been more than a decade earlier, the brunette walked hesitantly after the older witch into the large oval office and nearly jumped out of her skin as the door automatically closed with a soft click behind her. With a smooth sweep of her wand, Minerva changed the appearance of the solid paneled wood ceiling above them into that of an evening sky. Tall, white candles, their wicks aflame with golden light, already hovered about the room. The dark hills outside the castle were silhouetted against the fading sun, streaks of bright multi-coloured light stratified along the horizon. This simple setting was more beautiful than any ornately decorated room that Hermione could have imagined.

And her host.

The taller witch's hair was down and drawn away from her face. The dark tresses flowed down to the middle of her back and rippled as she moved. Her simple, sleeveless black dress had a modest neckline and came to just above her knees, but clever tailoring displayed Minerva's slim body to spectacular effect.

Hermione was so busy staring at the almost unrecognizable figure before her that she missed part of what the object of her gaze was saying.

'…predicted that you would not be drinking this evening, Hermione, given your still-tender condition from yesterday's adventure, so you'll excuse my lack of alcohol to offer you.'

To her credit, Hermione blushed.

'I shouldn't have d…' she began.

'Ah, ah.' Minerva held up a finger, cutting the younger witch off. 'We're all allowed to lapse from continual good judgment and behaviour once in a while.' Here she paused for a brief moment before adding, 'Preferably on nights which will allow the victim ample time to recover before classes begin the following week. Teaching a class of second years while hung-over is something that should never be experienced first-hand.'

'Will you ever forgive me for what I did?' Hermione found herself say before she could stop herself.

Minerva's back was still turned and there was a perceptible hesitation before she answered in a low voice.

'We'll see.'

Once they sat down for dinner, Hermione's chest began to feel like it would burst from the emotions swirling around inside of her. Minerva's demeanor was the utter opposite of what it had been for the past few months; she was articulate, using her scathing wit to ridicule the administration of Hogwarts and tease her former student without mercy. As the meal continued, Hermione's nerves became more and more agitated. Topics that would have been easy for her to discuss during her teenage years – papers recently published, scholars coming up with new theories, spells being refined – only made her nervous and self-conscious in front of the beautiful witch before her.

When they had finished, she stood up with a quick smile and pushed in her chair. She knew her hands were shaking.

'I still have my third year's papers to mark. Thank you for supper – it was lovely.'

Her host slowly rose out of her chair and stepped away from the table, lacing her hands behind her back.

'Oddly enough, in the time that I spent waiting for you to wake up this morning, I marked them for you.'

Hermione was a little shocked, but had another excuse ready.

'I also have …'

'…Your fifth year's quizzes,' finished the witch with a frown. 'Poor showing from the Ravenclaws, I must say, I don't think any of them received more than a seven. I'll give them the benefit of the doubt and excuse it as a byproduct of teenage hormonal imbalance and not a consequence of neglecting their homework.'

There was a pregnant pause after this short exchange. Minerva was looking at Hermione in a inscrutable fashion and the young witch couldn't decide whether the woman was waiting for her to leave or expecting her to stay and continue talking. In the interest of politeness, and as an escape route for her over-worked nerves, Hermione chose the first option.

Before she could move more than a step towards the door, the older woman reached out and slid her fingers slowly down Hermione's cheek, barely brushing the skin. The brunette froze where she was, not daring to let herself believe that the caress was real. The touch trailed down to her neck and was then joined by another, which slipped under her hair and moved through her scalp in a way that made her spine tingle.

'Not leaving so soon, I hope.'

Any lingering doubts in Hermione's mind as to the elder woman's intentions had evaporated when she spoke – the timbre of her voice low and rich.

Dipping her head, the brunette brushed her lips past Minerva's inner wrist as an answer.

Parted lips, warm against her own, softly touched her mouth. Never forcing, simply asking. An unspoken, tactile query. Slowly, Hermione ran her hands over the taller woman's slender shoulders to her long neck, stumbling over the chain of silver before reaching smooth skin again.

'Am I forgiven?' she managed to breathe out.

Hermione could feel the Scottish witch smile against her lips.

'What do you think, Hermione?' the woman murmured. 'Do you honestly think I would dress this way to have a private dinner with a person I only regarded as a colleague?'

Minerva pulled away. Confused, Hermione looked up at her, her hazel eyes widening, instantly thinking of rejection. Smiling reassuringly, the taller woman took her former student by the wrist and lead her up a hidden flight of stairs to her private quarters.

The older witch sat down on the edge of the canopied bed, gently pulling Hermione along with her as she lay down on the top of the covers.

Hermione undid the clasp of the silver necklace and set it on the bedside table, feeling it spill out of her hand and onto the wood surface. Her hands were still shaking, from either cold or nervousness she wasn't sure which.

Warm hands took hers and instantly, the younger witch's anxiety dissolved into anticipation.

* * *

They lay together quietly on top of the covers. Hermione lying on her left side, her arm resting around Minerva's abdomen and her head tucked against the older woman's shoulder. The steady heartbeat near her ear was comforting. Minerva was gazing up at the high ceiling, her only movements being the flickering of dark eyelashes.

'Did you read the latest paper by Cameron and Wallace,' the older witch said abruptly.

It took a second for Hermione to remember where she'd heard of the two names but as soon as it came to her, she groaned.

'It was horrible. They ignored previous research, had shoddy measurements and must have been roaring drunk when they wrote their abstract. And who in their right mind would think about pairing Mycroft's Theorem with the old version of the Abram's Code? They contradict each other!'

Minerva scowled at the ceiling

'Good Lord, I think you're being generous - I've had first years with behavioural problems that could have ran a better experimental design than they did. And yet, despite all of their obvious ineptitude, the Ministry is still funding them.'

The mention of first years triggered a question in Hermione.

'Do you miss teaching?'

The younger woman's voice was soft and curious. Minerva turned her head to look down at Hermione and it was a long moment before she spoke.

'Occasionally. There is a simple, fulfilling joy that comes with gifting knowledge to others, even those not as eager to learn as they should be.' Minerva smiled wryly. 'I don't miss having to discipline the reluctant ones or hand out multiple detentions.'

Hermione laughed.

'I always knew that strict façade was all just an act.'

'I'm sure the students don't miss me as much as you'd think.'

'Oh, you should have heard them rhapsodizing about your exploits in class – you've been _deified_ by their generation.'

Minerva cut in with a short laugh, 'They should see me after one of the meetings with the governors – that would cure them of any belief in my divinity.'

Hermione smiled wryly.

'It was eerie – they reminded me so much of myself when I was their age. I'd forgotten how much you'd meant to me. I'd forced myself to.'

The slim witch regarded the younger woman beside her.

'I missed you terribly, Hermione,' she said quietly. 'I followed your research, I read your papers and publications, kept track of your career.'

Tears had begun to form in Hermione's eyes as soon as she realized what Minerva was going to talk about. Long fingers brushed away the wetness that had begun to run down the younger witch's cheek.

'I sent you letters, they were returned unopened.'

The younger woman buried her face in Minerva's loose hair, reveling in the fresh, faintly floral scent.

'I was horrid to you,' she whispered.

'You were hurt, Hermione. I should have seen it coming during your seventh year and been more careful, but…' Minerva hesitated for the space of a breath before continuing in a softer voice. '…But I couldn't bear to distance myself, even if it was for your own good. I cared for you far more than was appropriate for one in my position. I saw myself in you, and moreover, I saw you as an individual, different from all the rest. More than a student. Unique.'

Hermione gazed up at her.

'Why is it that every time we have a conversation, one of us ends up in tears?'

Minerva smiled as she kissed the younger woman on the forehead.

'An abundance of affection, caring and a deep sensitivity to each other's feelings, otherwise known in common layman terms as love.'

Unable to think of an appropriate response to this succinct, perfect answer, Hermione sank into Minerva's embrace and drifted into contented sleep.

* * *

It was late in the evening several weekends later, and Hermione was on her way back from the library, an assortment of books in her arms, when she heard a familiar voice coming from one of the side corridors. Curious, she back-tracked a few steps and peered down the hall she had just passed. She was greeted by a strange scene.

'It is entirely possible that you are in fact wandering the halls at such a late hour because you have been given previously unprecedented permission by your Head of House to go wherever you please at whatever time you wish.'

A striking dark-haired witch in long robes was standing over a pair of much shorter students, hands folded behind loosely behind her back. It was obvious that she was enjoying herself immensely. The same could not be said for the two young boys, who were visibly shivering even from Hermione's vantage point twenty paces away.

'And as this is obviously not the case,' the Headmistress continued without pause, 'one must therefore conclude that you are up to less-than-desirable activities that may lead to expulsion from this school should you fail to evade detection by patrolling figures of authority such as myself.'

The two second-years stared at her in a mixture of wonderment and thinly-disguised terror.

'Judging by your looks of astonished disbelief, I will assume that the latter is correct. In that case, you have exactly three minutes and thirty seconds – approximately the time needed to sprint to your dormitory entrance – before I decide to throw you both in detention for the next three months. Am I understood?'

The students looked at each other, and looked back at their Headmistress.

'On your mark…get set…'

Letting her voice hang, not quite finishing her sentence, Minerva looked expectantly down at the wayward students. Finally realizing that the opportunity to escape punishment was dangling in front of their noses, the two boys ran full tilt in the direction of the Ravenclaw Dormitory before the Scottish witch could say 'go'.

Trying not to grin, Hermione stepped out of the shadows.

'One would almost think that you enjoyed that, Professor McGonagall.'

The woman turned around to face the newcomer, a wicked smile appearing on her face.

'Teaching can become dreadfully dull if the students are left in peace for too long, Professor Granger. Spooking them now and then keeps them on their toes.'

The two witches stood for a moment, gazing at each other in shared amusement. It was Minerva who broke the silence first.

'Is that Whitebridge's Formulary of Exotic Potions?' she said, frowning down at one of the books in Hermione's arms.

'It is,' Hermione grimaced. 'Three of my fifth-years have plagiarized much of chapter 45 in their essays on the dangers of combining potions and Human transfiguration. I'm not sure what bothers me more – their dim view of my intelligence or the apparent lack of their own judgmental skills.'

'Shall I turn them into white mice and chase them around the school for you?' Minerva offered.

A thoughtful look appeared on Hermione's face. Refraining from rolling her eyes, the taller witch changed the subject.

'Will you have time for tea this evening?'

The younger woman gave the Headmistress a sharp look. 'Are your maternal instincts coming out, Minerva?'

'A different form of affection, Hermione.' The Scottish witch leant over and kissed her former student gently on the forehead. 'But just as strong.'

The Transfigurations professor sighed and leant against the taller woman.

'You're going to make me drop my books, you know,' she murmured.

'I never liked Whitebridge anyway,' came the reply.

Hermione forced herself to step back after an enjoyable moment of closeness.

'In a few hours, then?'

The dark haired woman smiled.

'I look forward to it.'

There was a certain quality to the witch's voice that made Hermione blush. Laughing softly at the younger woman's expression, Minerva turned around and left Hermione to her obviously explicit thoughts of the coming evening.

One thing was for certain. Neither of them was going to get much schoolwork done that night.

_The End._

* * *

_Time for my annual endnote._

_After receiving a few e-mails on the subject, I should probably take a moment to elaborate on WHY I write Minerva/Hermione fics. _

_It isn't for sex. _

_There. I've said it. I enjoy writing dialog and interaction more than anything else, a common process for me is to start with many small separate stories and link them together by changing things to fit the particular plot. Above all, I enjoy humor. I find sexual interaction tedious to write, particularly because I won't write explicit sexual encounters – I am _unable _to. They always come off as comically inept and heavy-handed. _

_Keeping that in mind, to the delight of all, there are many Minerva/Hermione fics out there about sex. Some of them make me cringe – either those in which the two normally sane women manage to undress themselves only two paragraphs from the beginning – or a blatant disregard for characterization (for future reference: Minerva rarely uses colloquialisms in the books). There are also a few gems; stories that make you sit back in your chair and stare at the brilliance of the author's use of language and eloquence (these are the fics that we come back to time and time again to re-read our favourite bits). _

_Another thing has been running through my mind lately. It was piqued by an internet search for articles on the 'Girl Crush'. Or lack thereof. So, here's my view on the phenomenon._

_If you consider the audience of Minerva/Hermione__ fics__, you would likely find the following stereotypical readers._

_A: A poor high school student who has just discovered that her Social Studies teacher is far more attractive than any male she's ever encountered. Mesmerized by the woman's perfect legs, she forces herself to only look up from her paper when the teacher turns around to write something on the blackboard. Along with her blood pressure, her grades skyrocket upwards (to the delight of her parents). _

_B: The young woman who find her new dance teacher strangely appealing. She begins to wear the same clothes, the same perfume and buy the same brand of gum. She studies religiously to memorize all the lines from the afore-mentioned teacher's favourite movies and wonders how the dance teacher would act in every situation she finds herself (ex. 'Would Ms. So-and-so order the spring or the cesear salad as an appetizer?'). _

_C: A teen who is confused about her sexuality, and is slowly looking for _something_ she can connect to via a Google search on 'gay' people. She erases her computer's history after every session so her parents don't find out about her research. Lo and behold, after several days of searching, she runs across Harry Potter fan-fiction: a subject to which she can identify with. _

_D: The open-minded fanfiction author. They have a complete vocabulary and a good grasp of grammar and don't believe that gay people should be locked up. They will occasionally critique a story and some are less diplomatic about it than others._

_E: A wandering net-surfer with some grasp of literacy but an apparent lack of grey matter in the cranial cavity. They believe that non-biblical love is of satanical descent and will leave nasty comments on every non-Harry/Hermione fic they encounter, without any apparent effort at constructive criticism or capitalization. _

_The reader that interests me most is the first one. Judging from the e-mails I've received from all of you over the years, most of us are that girl. Handling the predicament that we find ourselves in - with subtlety no less - is difficult._

_May I offer some advice?_

_1. Don't send flowers/notes/letters anonymously. As much as the prospect of being a secret admirer is appealing, it will likely only make the object of your undying affection uncomfortable._

_2. Channel the above impulses into writing stories. They don't have to be Minerva/Hermione stories, as much as the rest of us would like them to be, just pick two characters that you identify with, decide on an opening, and run with the story. Ignore the nasty reviewers, listen to the advice of the polite ones and watch your writing skills improve month by month._

_3. Console yourself with the thought that you are not alone. There are millions of us that have found ourselves in the same situation. Yes, the feelings can be uncomfortable and confusing and will likely result in many sleepless nights to come (and the rare, perfect dream). On the other hand, there is something wonderful about realizing that you have 'fallen in love'. Moreover, your desire to emulate and please the object of your affection can give you direction and expose you to new interests, putting effort into subjects that you would normally only try to pass or working to perfect your pirouette piquée. _

_4. Wait it out. As confusing as your life is now, crushes fade, new ones appear. You may lose interest, the person in question may drift out of your life, or in rare cases, a friendship will replace these feelings. In retrospect, school-crushes on teachers were an important part of my youth – they taught me things about myself that would ordinarily have missed and opened up possibilities that I wouldn't have glanced at twice beforehand. They opened my eyes._

_Yours in writing,_

_J._


End file.
